


give a shape to this ache I have for you

by youabird (nevulon)



Series: you ought to give me wedding rings [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Compulsory Heterosexuality, Eddie Kaspbrak’s Late in Life Sexual Awakening, Emotional Baggage, Families of Choice, Holidays, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:33:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 49,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27598274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevulon/pseuds/youabird
Summary: Eddie goes to Atlanta for Thanksgiving with one goal: get Richie to marry him.You know. As friends.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: you ought to give me wedding rings [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2099805
Comments: 347
Kudos: 597





	1. Monday, Thursday, Tuesday

**Author's Note:**

> title from "Dela" by Johnny Clegg. yes i used the love theme from George of the Jungle for the title. in my defense the lyrics are perfect and also it has history’s most romantic pan flute. 
> 
> it's wednesday, my dudes. i'm back and i brought a ludicrous amount of pining with me. this fic is basically my answer to the question "what if _eddie_ were the hot mess express who didn't realize that richie’s feelings for him were requited???" thus it is pretty ~~light-hearted and~~ silly. (i gotta stop promising things are light-hearted, this is overall a rom com and is definitely silly but also, it gets heavy in the middle.) also i'm aware that this is a thanksgiving fic published in early december but a) i got busy and b) the holiday is just a plot device to get the losers all together in the same room, bear with me here.
> 
> specific chapter content warnings will be in the end notes, as per usual, but general content warnings for derry stuff (mentions of canon-typical bad parenting, gore, injuries, death) as well as eddie's comphet, his terrible marriage, emotional and sexual repression, plus the entire concept of thanksgiving.

The email looked innoucuous enough: from Stan, sent Monday afternoon, ten days before the Thanksgiving holiday. The subject said "Thanksgiving Plans," and it was addressed to all the Losers. Eddie scanned it, deposited it in the subfolder marked _Friends_ , and then stopped. He reopened it. He read it again.

Then he got his phone out and called Richie.

"Since when," Eddie demanded, after saying a perfunctory hello, "Are you a pescatarian?"

Richie laughed. Eddie pushed back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling. Hearing Richie's voice was soothing, despite the faint mockery in his tone. "I live in LA. Everyone's a pescatarian."

"Bullshit. You ate meatloaf in my hospital room."

"It was hospital food, Eds, I wasn't exactly spoiled for choice, was I?" Richie yawned into the phone speaker. "Also, it's recent. I've gotten into pescatarianism. I started jogging and I stopped eating red meat."

Eddie ignored the jogging comment; he'd believe it when he saw it. "So you eat chicken?"

"No. Otherwise I'd eat the goddamn turkey," Richie said.

Eddie couldn't imagine Thanksgiving without eating the goddamn turkey. The goddamn turkey was the point of the whole day, and Eddie didn't even _like_ turkey. It was a ridiculous meal. As a child, he'd suffered through the holiday, neatly dressed in uncomfortable finery while his mother slaved over a way-too-big bird; then, over the next two weeks, he'd eaten sack lunches of progressively dryer turkey leftovers and limp mashed potatoes. By the time the last of the carcass was turned into turkey casserole and turkey noodle soup, it was basically Christmastime, and the cycle started again.

During his marriage, Myra had reliably produced a comically large turkey each November. Eddie dutifully ate the turkey—it was Thanksgiving, you had a turkey, that was simply the way it was—but he had put his foot down about Christmas. Myra made ham for Christmas. If it wasn't good, it was at least an improvement.

This Thanksgiving, however, Eddie was divorced and there would be no dry turkey to be shared with Myra. Instead, he had a plane ticket for Atlanta. Stan had sent paper invites way back in April, neatly addressed to all six of them. Eddie had said yes without thinking, without any further follow-up questions. His post-divorce life was still in chaos, seven months after Derry; it was a blessed relief to have something as major as Thanksgiving solved so many months in advance.

And it was Thanksgiving with Stan—Stan with his lists and his careful planning. His wife, Patty, who Eddie had met only briefly in Derry Hospital, seemed just as orderly and deliberate. They loved _puzzles_ , for Christ's sake. The whole Blum-Uris Thanksgiving had been disciplined and precise from the moment Eddie had RSVP'd an emphatic _yes_. Stan sent hotel recommendations in late spring, flight and transportation info in summer, proposed menus in late October. Everything made perfect sense. Eddie copied all the relevant info into his Google calendar and felt a deep sense of peace each time he saw the holiday week blocked off in pink. _Thanksgiving at Stan/Pat's_ , it read, carefully reassuring him that he indeed had plans and would not have to spend the holiday black-out drunk. Or at work.

But apparently there wouldn't be a turkey. That was the text of Stan's email, anyway. Nestled among driving directions and the schedule of events, Stan had written: _Richie has informed me that he's a pescatarian. So please prepare yourselves for Thanksgiving salmon._

Eddie had almost died fighting a murderous alien in a sewer but salmon? For Thanksgiving? That was a bridge too far.

He slouched in his chair. It was late; the office was silent, except for the hum of the fluorescents. No one was around to witness his bad posture, or the fact that he'd unbuttoned his collar and shed his tie. "You're a pickier eater than I am now, you know that?"

"That is not fucking true. You eat sprouted bread, Eddie, and don't you fucking dare say it's good for you," Richie said vehemently. "It's barely even food. It's basically the cardboard from inside a toilet paper roll."

"It _is_ good for you."

"God, you're stubborn."

"Shut up," Eddie said, absentmindedly updating the Excel sheet he was working on. "Where are you?"

"The beautiful Minneapolis airport Hilton," Richie said. Richie was on his comeback tour and had been for most of the fall. He and Eddie had spent a nice weekend together in September when he'd been playing in New York. During the day, they did all the touristy shit Eddie had forgotten to do over the last twenty years, and at night, Richie slept in Eddie's bed while Eddie took the pull-out couch. "Glamorous, I know. Watching TV. Having my usual anxiety spiral."

"Drink a glass of water," Eddie said, although he knew drinking water wouldn't help. Nothing helped Richie when he was freaking out about going on-stage; he made it through by white-knuckling it, which probably wasn't healthy but Eddie had no room to speak on the matter and they both knew it. 

"What are _you_ doing?"

Reflexively, Eddie sat up straight in his chair, as if caught. "Don't be weird about it—"

"Ah," Richie said, amused. "You're working."

"I have something due first thing tomorrow!"

Richie laughed. Eddie smiled despite himself, because it was nice to hear Richie laugh. He imagined Richie on his hotel bed, immaculately clean white sheets, maybe wearing a bathrobe. He felt a deep itch in his chest like longing—for what? Hotel sheets? "You're so fucking crazy, Eds."

"Shut up. This is the only time I've worked late this month, _and_ I'm going to Work Drinks this month. Third time since spring."

"Are you bragging about having friends?"

"Yeah, I am," Eddie said. 

"You _have_ friends," Richie said. He sounded slightly wounded, and Eddie rolled his eyes.

"I know, but they're work friends. They don't know anything about me outside of the office, you know? We talk about sports, we get drinks, we bitch about our boss, Ted. It's great."

Since deflating his lung in Maine, Eddie had been transferred to this new, theoretically less stressful, team. True, he hadn't noticed any change in difficulty or in the number of arbitrary deadlines set by incompetent managers—but having killed the demon that had haunted his nightmares _and_ regained full possession of his memories, he was now a slightly more mellow person. His new coworkers had responded to this. They weren't _close_ but they seemed to like him. Eddie hadn't felt likeable since he was a kid; he would suffer through sticky, unhygienic bars and inane small talk to keep that feeling going.

Laughing, Richie asked, "Are you gonna spend Thanksgiving telling us about your petty work dramas?"

"Fuck me for having a normal job. I listen when _you_ tell me about your life, you know."

But then, he liked listening to Richie talk about his job. He liked listening to Richie talk, full-stop. It had been strange when Richie had gone back to California, after a week of Richie in his hospital room, bothering him and stealing his pudding cups and arguing with Stan in the hallways. Eddie had wondered if their friendships could survive the real world—they had known, after Bill had risked a weekend trip to L.A. to salvage his movie, that the Derry magic had faded, but they were forty years old. Their lives were flung across an entire continent. Eddie had contented himself to hear from Richie rarely, if at all, but Richie just called him one afternoon and said, "So what the fuck are _you_ up to? Because I'm this close to firing my manager and then walking into the ocean."

Richie's job was always fascinating. Eddie had no desire to be creative or artistic or, God forbid, _vulnerable_ , but he liked hearing about Richie doing it. And Richie was kind of a celebrity, and sometimes his coworkers were actual celebrities, people Eddie had actually heard of and knew about. It felt strangely cool, being two degrees of separation from the actors on the NBC sitcoms he liked to watch. Eddie hadn't figured out a way to casually drop into conversation with his work acquaintances that his childhood best friend was _Richie Tozier_ , but when he did, surely they'd be impressed.

"My life? There's nothing to tell, dude," Richie said. "I'm on tour. I saw the inside of my hotel room, the inside of a hotel dining room, the venue, the airport, and then a new hotel room. I mean, I watched the new X-Men movie on the plane yesterday, but it sucked, I fell asleep during it."

Eddie rolled his head back and forth. He was sore from his bad posture, and his eyes burned from staring at the screen. "What about the rest of your life? You seeing anybody in L.A.?"

There was a brief silence on the line. "Yes. But there's nothing to tell."

"Okay," Eddie said, trying not to fidget.

"It's casual," Richie said. "It's not even exclusive. It's fine."

"That's nice," Eddie said.

Eddie was dimly aware that Richie had had feelings for him. Definitely in high school and almost certainly during that fateful weekend back in Derry. A week after Eddie had woken up, somehow _alive_ despite the thoracic trauma, Richie had disappeared. Just left. He'd vanished and gone back to California without warning. Eddie had been incandescent with rage, but then Richie called and came out to him. Puzzled and medicated and still a little angry, Eddie had done his best to be supportive—he would have _never guessed_ , he never would have known in a million years—and after he hung up, Bev had looked at him very, very pityingly. She refused to answer any of his questions. After a few days, Eddie realized that the other Losers were disappointed in him, too. Apparently he was supposed to have already known that Richie was gay and carried secret, private feelings for him.

Eddie hadn't. Eddie had thought that he and Richie were best friends who had lapsed into strangers, nothing more.

Nobody ever said anything. Not the Losers—they were unsubtle enough that Eddie caught on at last, but they didn't say a word—and not Richie, and _certainly_ not Eddie. He didn't return Richie's feelings and he'd had no idea how to say that. He loved Richie in a strictly platonic fashion. Post-Myra, Eddie was sure he'd never experienced romantic love and seriously doubted he was capable of it. He missed Richie and found himself thinking about him constantly, but that wasn't love.

That was just Richie.

It felt like penance, asking about Richie's dating life. It felt like the weakest, silliest offering that Eddie could make, as if he were saying: _sorry I didn't want to have sex with you, but I hope someone does? Tell me about them?_ And surely guys _did_ want to have sex with Richie—he was an embarrassing loudmouthed comedian with bad hair and the fashion sense of a deranged teenager, but he was a good-looking guy. He was tall, for one. He had shoulders, for another.

On the other end of the line, Richie asked, "Are _you_ seeing anyone?"

"No. Why would I," Eddie scoffed. "Every time a woman even smiles at me, I think about the amount of money I still owe my fucking lawyer."

They had missed the window where they could talk about it. It would be too awkward now—Eddie would rather die than bring it back up, nearly a year later. Besides, they were at an impasse that worked: Richie knew that Eddie was straight, Eddie knew that Richie had once had feelings for him. Neither of them intended to _do_ anything about it.

"I feel like there's a middle ground between sitting in your office at 6:30 on a Monday night while your dick withers away to dust and getting divorced again."

"I'm not interested," Eddie said shortly.

Richie was silent for a long beat. "Okay."

"Fuck you. What are you bringing to Thanksgiving?"

"My charming conversational skills. You think I fucking cook? I'm flying to Atlanta to con Stan into feeding me. What are _you_ making?"

Eddie hated to think of Richie out there alone in L.A., not even able to cook for himself. Winding the telephone cord around his finger, he said, "I'm helping Bev with the mashed potatoes."

"Oh, Jesus, we're all screwed."

"I'm going to put rat poison in your food," Eddie snapped.

"Coward. Have the decency to murder me to my face."

They talked for another twenty minutes, while Eddie wrapped up the project he was working on. By that point the sky outside was pitch black, studded with artificial galaxies of neon lights. When Eddie could delay it no longer he said, "Okay, I have to go."

"Alright, talk to you later Eds," Richie said, then hung up on him.

Eddie didn't know why they ended their calls like that, so neutral and unaffectionate. When he spoke to the other Losers, it was easy to say 'I love you, goodbye,' before hanging up, but Richie never said anything of the sort. Eddie had been conditioned by long years of marriage that the only response to 'I love you' was 'I love you too'; it was reflexive to say it _back_ to someone. But he had no idea how to start saying it to someone, even someone as important to him as Richie.

He worried that starting that precedent would give Richie false hope, though. So maybe they were stuck with 'See ya' and 'Talk to you later' then.

The subway was disgusting. Eddie zipped his coat and kept his hands firmly within his pockets, trying to limit the amount of touching he had to do. Since getting divorced, Eddie had been trying to do more real New Yorker things—riding the subway, shopping at bodegas, having strong opinions about the best Duane Reade. After twenty years, he finally felt like he lived _in_ New York. Before, he'd felt like a passenger, buffeted along by the city but not actually part of it.

He was shocked to discover he _liked_ New York. Yes, the subway was dirty and sometimes he had to press knees against another person, but he liked the efficiency of it. He could listen to an audiobook on his commute, and he was saving a fortune on gas.

He liked shopping at bodegas, too. His building was just around the corner from one, and Eddie headed straight from the subway to the brightly lit store. Shaking the cold out, he nodded hello to the checkout girl, who he recognized now, and politely scratched the ears of the bodega cat. As he wandered the tiny aisles, he let his mind wander to its preferred target: Richie.

He wished that he could have feelings for Richie. That would make everything simpler. It would be nice to be with someone who understood Derry; Eddie tried not to be jealous of his friends but he couldn't help himself on that score. He knew he needed to leave Myra the moment he woke up after the impalement—he knew it without even knowing _why_ , had only later put together he'd been unhappy most of his adult life—but even if he hadn't, the marriage could never have survived. He couldn't tell Myra about Derry, and he couldn't share a life with someone who didn't understand. Maybe if Myra had been like Patty, they would have found a way. But if Myra had been anything like Patty was for Stan, Eddie would not have woken up babbling her name, trying to explain he needed to be unmarried to her _yesterday_.

Richie had that going for him—Richie understood. Richie had also saved his life. Eddie didn't think he _owed_ Richie, but he was grateful. He had meant to tell Richie that, before Richie skipped town. Most importantly, though, he liked Richie better than anybody else. Richie was annoying, and rude, and made fun of Eddie for being conscientious about his job, but he was undoubtedly Eddie's favorite person. Eddie picked up the phone each time he called; Eddie had taken the couch while Richie was in town. Eddie had not yelled at Richie _once_ for abandoning him in Derry Hospital with a foot-long gash in his chest, even though he was, over a year later, still furious about it.

Tinny music played over the bodega speakers. Eddie slung a ten-pack of LaCroix, toothpaste and a carton of eggs into his handbasket. As he did so, he noticed there were gluten-free pie crusts in the long, refrigerated trough of perishable goods. Amazed, he picked one up. It was a pie crust, free of gluten. Eddie had never heard of such a thing. On a whim, he bought it, along with all his other necessities.

He called Richie back in the elevator up to his apartment. Richie answered with a very put-upon sigh. "Twice in one day? Needy, baby, very needy."

"Shut up, you call me all the time," Eddie said, not at all apologetic. "Did you know they make _gluten-free_ pie crusts?"

"How do you not know this, Eds."

"I don't eat pie, Richie! Because of the gluten."

"You're gonna make Stan, who has opened his home to us, eat a gluten-free pie crust? Do you hate him, Eddie?"

"I hate _you_ ," he said, letting himself into his apartment, plucking the mail free from the mailbox. Phone bill, cable bill, lawyer bill. A postcard from Mike and Bill featuring a sweeping southwestern vista—assholes. Rubbing their vacation in his face. Eddie dutifully slapped the postcard onto the fridge anyway, securing it with a plain silver magnet.

"Obviously, which is why you're calling me, again."

It was still early in the evening, but Eddie didn't want to monopolize Richie's time. Well, he _did_ want that, badly, but he was adult enough to back off so that Richie could do his job. Faux-casual, he asked, "You about to go on?"

"Nope, not even at the venue yet."

"So you've got time?"

"Eddie my love," Richie said, mock-solemnly, "For you, I have all the time in the world."

Eddie's stomach squirmed pleasurably, which was just a weird thing that happened sometimes where Richie was involved. Richie was a loud-mouthed, annoying shit, and yet his attention still felt like the absolute best thing in the world.

"Good to know, asshole," Eddie said, as he settled onto his crappy couch to talk to him.

+++

Work Drinks was a sacred team ritual that had been going on for God knows how long, but, Eddie, who had been on this team for less than a year, was largely agnostic about the whole thing. He rarely bothered coming, and only when Devon and Melissa were going. Devon and Melissa were his most appealing coworkers. Devon had a doctor wife and a year-old baby, and he usually had cute photos of the kid to show Eddie. Melissa was the funniest person in the office, but for some reason she had once said that _Eddie_ was funny. Privately, Eddie treasured this compliment—not that he'd ever told Melissa or would tell anybody else. It was embarrassing, how much it had meant to him.

Devon and Melissa were both down for November Work Drinks, and so, on the Thursday before Thanksgiving, Eddie followed them and most of the rest of the team to a grungy dive bar not far from the office. The bar was not to Eddie's taste—it was filled with people and noise, with thick ropes of Christmas lights strung along the cross beams. Devon, however, said, "Excellent. First round?"

Everyone looked at their shoes. Eddie, who was impatient by nature, rolled his eyes. "I'll do it."

"Aw, Eddie," another coworker said, pleased.

"Yeah, well, you all fucking owe me," Eddie said. He slid his coat off, compensating for his weaker left arm as best he could, and handed it to Devon. "And you better not order anything complicated or I will kill you with my bare hands."

They ordered several complicated things. Eddie had to write everything down on his phone, and when he went up to the bar, he just held the screen up so the bartender could read it. It was too loud for conversation, let alone explaining his coworkers' insufferable drink orders. While the bartender mixed, Eddie let his eyes wander. The team had claimed two booths in the back; Melissa waved when their gazes met. Eddie waved, then turned back. Above the bar, a TV was tuned to ESPN. The baseball offseason was in full swing, and Eddie saw with disgust that the Red Sox were making their usual stupid roster moves.

"Fucking dipshits," he said to no one.

"You a Sox fan?" said a voice to his left. Eddie jumped, not expecting it, and turned. The speaker was a tall man in glasses and a beanie, even though he was indoors. He smiled a crooked, apologetic smile. "Sorry, just—the accent, you don't sound like you're from Boston."

"Maine," Eddie said. He had to lean in to the guy's space because it was so loud. "Fuck Boston."

"You don't sound like you're from Maine, either."

Eddie squinted up at him. "Who the fuck are you, the accent police?"

The guy laughed. Eddie had meant to turn away and return his attention to the bartender, but now he paused. "You like the Red Sox?"

"God no. New Yorker through and through." The guy smiled, a flash of teeth in the dimness of the room. "And my mom would disown me if she caught me rooting for an American League team."

Eddie's mom had threatened to disown him for a lot of things, but never baseball. Baseball she tolerated; maybe it was too all-American to be objectionable. Despite her tacit approval of baseball, Eddie had grown up to love it anyway, whole-heartedly, and that meant he had strong opinions. "The Mets? Jesus, that Dark Knight, Matt Harvey bullshit was embarrassing. And then you lost to the fucking Royals! _That's_ embarrassing."

Rather than take offense, the guy laughed again. He had a nice smile, Eddie noticed. "Buy me a beer if you're gonna talk shit about my team."

"I don't buy beer for Mets fans."

"Your loss," the guy said, mouth still curled around a smile, but then the bartender signaled to Eddie that his tray of drinks was ready to go. Eddie grabbed it and walked away, bearing as much weight as humanly possible in his right arm.

His coworkers cheered his return, which made him blush furiously. Drinks distributed, he slid into the second booth with Devon and Melissa, who had saved him a spot. They weren't friends—like he'd told Richie, they knew nothing about him beyond what he was like in the office—but Eddie thought they were allies.

"Cute guy," Melissa said, saluting Eddie with her beer.

"Who? What guy?"

Melissa raised an eyebrow. "The one flirting with you?"

"That guy?" Eddie said, baffled. "He wasn't—he was talking to me about baseball."

Melissa and Devon exchanged a glance. "Come on, Kaspbrak," Melissa said teasingly.

Instead of answering, Eddie craned his neck one hundred and eighty degrees to stare back at the bar, to see if Baseball Guy was still standing there. He was not—he'd moved, and the mass of sloppy yuppies had rearranged so that Eddie couldn't spot him. Searching the crowd anyway, Eddie tried to recall that conversation. It hadn't been flirting, right? Had it?

"You good, Kaspbrak?"

Eddie, jolted out of his rudeness, turned back. Melissa and Devon were staring at him, eyebrows raised. "Great," Eddie said hastily. "Sorry, what are we talking about?"

Devon shot one last sneaky glance at him, but he took the bait. "Thanksgiving," he said, shaking his head. "My fucking mother-in-law decided that _we're_ hosting it. And Alexis doesn't know how to make a fucking turkey! She works eighty hours a week, and they don't exactly cover how to make a turkey in residency. So now _I'm_ making the turkey."

"I don't even eat turkey," Melissa said with a shrug. "Give me Chinese food and the Lions game, that's all I'm asking for."

Eddie, feeling that the moment was right for a vague personal detail, said, "My friend's making salmon. For Thanksgiving."

It was a good detail. He could tell—Devon snorted and Melissa said, in a friendly way, "That's unhinged."

"Yeah. My—my friend Richie. He doesn't eat turkey. He's pescatarian, because he's from L.A. And apparently we all have to eat salmon because of him."

"So you're going to L.A. for Thanksgiving?"

"No, Georgia," he said. The rest of their coworkers were in the other booth, talking about fucking-Ted and his stupid intraoffice memos, but Devon and Melissa were paying complete attention to Eddie. Even though they _loved_ ragging on fucking-Ted's intraoffice memos. "My childhood friends and I—we're doing Thanksgiving. And Stan's making a salmon, because Richie's a fucking diva who can't eat turkey on Thanksgiving."

"That's cute," Devon said, smiling. "Childhood friends, all getting back together for the holidays. Atlanta?"

"Yeah," Eddie said. "Well, Johns Creek."

Melissa had let her hair down from the neat bun she wore it in during work hours; when she shook her head, her curls bounced. "Thanksgiving salmon."

"Yeah. But he's—Richie is—it's his holiday too," Eddie said, as if Richie required defending. "And he's blowing off his parents to come to Atlanta, so I can't be too mad at him."

This was good. This was the point of Work Drinks: socializing in gentle, manageable bursts. Devon and Melissa weren't friends but they were _friendly_ , and Eddie, who had no one in his life except his friends from childhood and a very hateful ex-wife, could hardly turn down fond acquaintances. And wasn't variety the spice of life?

Look at him: Eddie Kaspbrak, spicing up his life.

Devon gave him a considering look over the rim of his highball glass. "You look like the kind of guy who's in charge of the turkey. Got any tips?"

"No, God no. Never." Myra would have sooner killed, cooked and served Eddie for Thanksgiving dinner than allow him to prepare the food. "I'm making the mashed potatoes. But you—are you making all the side dishes too?"

"Nah," Devon said. "I'm just gonna order from one of those gourmet catalogues and hope Alexis's mom doesn't notice."

"You're too nice, Devon. She invited herself over, she told you guys you're cooking—she sounds like an asshole."

Devon laughed. "Alright, yes, she is an asshole," he said to Melissa, who continued to frown at him, "But I married Alexis, and that means that I love her and I support her and sometimes I lie to her mother that I baked the green beans I'm serving at Thanksgiving. That's what marriage is about."

"That was in your vows, huh," Melissa teased. Devon nodded, mock-serious.

"They were very exhaustive vows, yes."

Eddie, meanwhile, used his plastic straw to rattle the ice cubes around his glass, lost in thought. The way Devon had described his marriage—was that all marriage was? Not the lying to your mother-in-law—Eddie had performed that obligation for a decade, pretending that he and Myra were happier and wealthier and more in love than they really were—but the idea of it. Taking care of someone. 

One of the few things Eddie had relished about marriage was the partnership. He had liked taking care of Myra. When they started dating, Eddie had paid for everything; he was stupid enough to think that was his job, even though he was broke and Myra lived with her parents and had plenty of money. But he'd liked that. It felt good, to do things for her. After the wedding, there was no difference between his money and her money, and meanwhile the number of things that Myra trusted him to do had declined sharply until Eddie was not allowed to do anything, anymore, except go to work, come home and be fussed over. But for a moment there, things had been good. Eddie cleaned, Myra cooked; Eddie paid the bills and Myra balanced the checkbook. Sometimes, Eddie would even bring her home a small gift or dust the snow off her car for her before she woke, just because, just to show he cared. Myra never appreciated these little gestures but Eddie had stubbornly done them anyway.

He could do _that_ part. Loving a person unconditionally, maybe not—but Eddie could take care of another person, easily.

He was big enough to admit to himself that he had a particular person in mind.

He rejoined the conversation. "Is your mother-in-law a good cook?"

"Yeah, she's pretty good," Devon said. "She's Greek, and she makes Sunday lunches for the whole family back in Chicago, and I mean the _whole family,_ but she says she'll be too tired from traveling to cook."

Oh, Devon was doomed. Eddie did his best to keep his pity off his face. "You're screwed," he said matter-of-factly, "She'll know you didn't cook the sides in a second."

Devon's face crumpled in disappointment, and Melissa laughed. After a beat, Eddie joined in, and Devon pulled his coat over his head and put his face down on the sticky tabletop, pretending to pout.

It was a good night. They talked about Thanksgiving and the new corporate account, the unreliable subway and the insane broker fees landlords were charging nowadays. Melissa, who had gone through a bad breakup two months after Eddie joined the team, was sympathetic to Eddie's plight; she was splitting a two-bedroom with two friends in the UES and paying out the nose for the privilege. Eddie told her how much his studio cost and she hissed through her teeth. "Suckers," said Devon, who commuted in from New Jersey, although not unkindly.

The other appeal of Work Drinks was that it only lasted two hours. Eddie nursed one whiskey for one hundred and twenty minutes and then it was time to go. As he zipped up his coat, he said goodbye to his other, less interesting coworkers—Peter and Gen, Marcus and Hae Min. To his faint but pleasant surprise, Devon and Melissa made no move to leave without him, but waited for him to struggle his left arm into his sleeve. "Let's hit the road," was all Melissa said; Eddie, deeply grateful, hid his blush in the collar of his coat.

It was cold outside. New York in November could be seventy or twenty, and today it was closer to the latter. Their breath fogged in the air as they burst onto the sidewalk. Various other people were out here puffing on cigarettes or talking on cellphones, and Eddie and his colleagues had to pick their way delicately across the sidewalk. "That was fun," Melissa said, "But also I don't think I'll be up for another until January."

"No, the December one is good, very festive," Devon said. Eddie didn't believe that. Eddie didn't willingly go anywhere in New York City in December. He was opening his mouth to say just that when, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a familiar face. 

Baseball Guy was standing at the corner of the building, half-shadowed; when Eddie looked at him, they made instant eye contact, as if Baseball Guy had been watching him since he'd come out of the bar. He looked, Eddie now realized, kind of like Richie. Not truly similar—they both stood tall and broad-shouldered with bad posture and glasses, but this stranger was fairer and skinnier, and five years younger to boot—but close enough for Eddie to feel that old _ping_ of recognition. He'd spent twenty years wandering around, half-remembering Richie and the rest of the Losers every time he'd seen a halfway familiar face on the street, and even after Derry it hadn't gone away. But now he knew _who_ he was missing and why.

Baseball Guy waved two fingers at him, pack of cigarettes in his hand. He had been flirting at the bar. He was flirting now. Eddie understood this in an instant and in response, he made a sudden decision, so big and momentous it would have startled him had it not felt right.

"I think I dropped a glove," he said, to Melissa and Devon. They both turned back, looking concerned. "I'm just going to head inside and look for it."

"I can come help," Melissa offered; Devon nodded to indicate that he, too, would assist. Eddie shook his head.

"No, it's fine. I'll just be a second."

The rest of their coworkers were farther down the block, almost out of sight. Melissa looked at Eddie, then back at the group, and then nodded. "Okay," she said. "It was good hanging out with you tonight, Kaspbrak."

"Yeah," Devon said, "Don't be a stranger."

"See you guys tomorrow," Eddie said, as they walked away, catching up with the rest of the happy hour patrons. Only then did he turn back.

"Hey, Maine," Baseball Guy said, as Eddie approached him, "Thought you took off."

"Those things will kill you," Eddie said nonsensically. The moonlight reflected on the guy's glasses. He looked both surprised and not to see Eddie in front of him. He was smiling gently.

"Well," he said, "I like a little danger."

Eddie looked down the block, but Melissa and Devon and all the rest were long gone. While he still had his nerve, Eddie reached up and kissed Baseball Guy on the mouth.

It was a nice kiss. Eddie hadn't expected it to be, but it was. Baseball Guy kissed him back, having clearly expected it, one hand reaching up to touch Eddie's jaw. His hand was large and square and a little cold against Eddie's skin. He had stubble that rasped pleasantly against the underside of Eddie's lip. He smelled like cologne and cigarettes, underneath the tang of city refuse and the scent of snow on the air. Eddie's heartbeat quickened as Baseball Guy's mouth opened, and he stepped in closer, feeling light-headed, to kiss him back.

Eddie stood there in the sight of God and his dead mother's ghost, making out with a Mets fan in a dirty alley.

After an indulgently long moment, he stepped back. Baseball Guy's eyes opened. Eddie's stomach was a pool of heat; his lips were buzzing. "Sorry," he said, jamming his hands into his pockets. They had been bunched up in the front of Baseball Guy's coat, so tight they felt cramped now, and Eddie had to shake the sting out of them. His left arm hurt even more, naturally, but the ache in his shoulder felt like an accomplishment.

"It's alright," Baseball Guy said. He was _looking_ at Eddie. He was staring at him, basically, except it wasn't unpleasant, only way too much. Eddie shivered, hoped the guy didn't notice. "You're a loose cannon."

Eddie wasn't a loose cannon. He just wanted to know if he could kiss a guy and not mind it; it turned out he could. He could kiss men. He didn't know if he could kiss _Richie_ but he could kiss at least one man. The experiment, while not conclusive, boded well.

"Yeah," he said. "Um. Have a nice night. And you should probably move on from Harvey while he has any trade value left."

Baseball Guy laughed, genuinely amused. For a moment, Eddie thought about offering him a brisk handshake, but that didn't seem right. Baseball Guy was still looking at him, waiting to see what he'd do next. Eddie hadn't been on a date or even kissed anyone in—well, he couldn't quite remember. But it felt appropriate to press up on his tiptoes and lay a parting kiss on Baseball Guy's stubbled cheek.

Baseball Guy laughed again. "Bye, Maine," he said, and that little comment made Eddie feel less guilty about leaving him there, half-kissed and clearly interested, so that he could go home and devise a plan to convince Richie to marry him.

+++

Eddie and Bev had nearly come to blows over which airline to use when they flew down to Atlanta the week of Thanksgiving. Eddie had been tenderly nurturing his frequent flyer miles with United for two decades, but Bev had carried a grudge ever since United had lost a suitcase of hers on an international flight. Neither side was willing to budge. Eddie spent a week seriously considering damning politeness and just buying three tickets, before Ben gently pointed out that his house was closer to Buffalo and that it would be more convenient to fly out from there. They'd have to fly separately; the point was moot.

So Eddie flew to Atlanta alone and yet he _still_ had to wait around in the arrivals hall like a chump. Ben and Bev's plane was delayed slightly due to snow in Buffalo, and by the time they finally landed Eddie had memorized every bathroom and emergency exit in the domestic arrivals hall. He was starting to get pissed about it, but then he saw the two of them, hands linked, scanning the crowd intently for him. His bad mood evaporated.

He stood, waved. Ben saw him first and waved back furiously; Bev turned and burst into a beaming smile at the sight of him. When Eddie wheeled the handcart with his suitcases, plural, stacked atop it, Bev swept him up into a hug. She and Ben both wore quilted, puffy jackets, ludicrously too warm for Atlanta, and Eddie got lost in the soft fluff of her coat. "Hi, and happy birthday! Wow, you look so good!" she said, then held him at arm's length. "Let me get a look at you!"

"I look the same."

"No, honey," she said, "You look like you're sleeping at night."

Embarrassed, Eddie turned to Ben. "Hey Ben."

Ben also hugged him; Eddie hugged back, a half-second behind. "Hey Eddie. Sorry we couldn't fly in together."

Bev scoffed. "Don't start this again."

The three of them went down to the rental cars desk and picked up the keys to a sedate Honda with good gas mileage. They piled into the car—Bev driving, Eddie in the passenger seat, Ben placidly sliding into the back. Surprisingly, Eddie felt less like a third-wheel than he had expected to. Back in Maine, Ben and Bev had been caught in a brand new, exciting love; they'd barely been able to keep their hands off each other, even while Eddie was lying there, his gaping wound packed with gauze. Now, nearly a year later, they were clearly still in love but it was calmer, less urgent. Bev still sneaked adoring glances at Ben in the rear view mirror, but she could also focus on the road.

"So," she said, pulling onto the interstate, "How are you, Eddie? Good birthday?"

"Good. Work's good. My birthday was fine."

"How's the single life?" Ben asked.

Eddie stared at the rain falling in the beams of oncoming headlights. "Uh," he said. "It's whatever."

The face of the strange man he'd kissed in New York popped into his head, but the details had faded over the last week. In Eddie's mind the guy looked even _more_ like Richie now. 

"Not that I'm not the happiest a person could ever be," Bev said, "But I miss being single! Getting to know people, going out, having no one to answer to but yourself? It's so exciting, I'm jealous."

She sounded very sincere as she said this, but she also caught Ben's eye in the mirror again. A look of genuine adoration passed between them in a single instant. Eddie watched it happen. He wasn't jealous of Bev; he just knew that she wasn't actually jealous of him.

"When are you two getting married?" he asked. Bev laughed.

"Oh, Eddie, never change."

From the backseat, Ben shrugged, leaning forward. "I don't know. We're not in any rush, are we?"

"I'm not asking because I care," Eddie said. "Personally I think weddings are a huge waste of time and money."

Eddie's wedding, like his marriage, had been something that happened to him. He'd shown up and worn the outfit he was supposed to and said all his lines. The happiest moment of the whole day was when he got to the honeymoon suite and immediately passed out, still in his suit and dress shoes. 

Bev laughed again, even harder. "Incredible that you ended up getting divorced."

"I'm just asking because I wanted to know if you'd talked about it."

Again, their eyes met. Some couples seemed to be able to converse with just glances—Eddie had never had that with Myra, a clear sign they had been ill-matched. Bev said, "I don't need a wedding to define our commitment."

"But we might want to," Ben added.

"You should. There are a lot of legal protections, tax incentives, that kind of thing. And if you draw a responsible pre-nup, you wouldn't have to go through all the Tom bullshit again."

"Eddie," Bev said, both gently and with amusement, as if Eddie was being cute instead of dispensing useful financial advice, "What's all this about?"

There was no point dissembling about it. Eddie took a deep breath in and said, "I think I want Richie to marry me."

All Bev said was, "Okay."

"I'm serious."

"Sure you are."

"The tax benefits alone, Bev. And," he said, turning to address Ben, because he didn't know what Ben's face was doing and he wanted to see if Ben was on his side, "I don't think you should be allowed to be a pescatarian if you don't know to cook."

Ben seemed, if anything, slightly confused. "Well, Eddie, can _you_ cook?"

Eddie scowled at him. "Shut up, Ben."

Eddie could sort of cook. Cooking had always been Myra's responsibility, but since leaving her, he had figured it out. He was lazy and unadventurous but he knew how to feed himself without relying on take-out more than once or twice a week. He had even made tilapia filets with rice and skinny slices of orange once, over the summer. He'd snapped a picture for Richie and Richie had written back, _your plating is dogshit ed boy_ and Eddie had called him up to shout at him, but the tilapia had been good. Eddie could make Richie tilapia, if he insisted on being a pescatarian. Eddie could learn to make more kinds of fish—tuna, mahi mahi, maybe someday branzino.

Not shellfish, though. Some lines couldn't be crossed.

Forty minutes later, Bev navigated the Honda into the long, skinny driveway outside of Stan and Patty's house. Ben said, "Oh!" as they climbed out and shook their cramped limbs free. Eddie understood what he meant—he was no architect but the house was undeniably beautiful. Even in the dark, it stood large and sedate on a dark green lawn, warmly-lit picture windows beckoning them up the path. The front door opened, and out stepped a tall woman in a shawl-collared sweater: Patty. Despite the rain, she hurried down the steps to greet them.

"Eddie! Oh, Beverly, you look so good! Ben!" she said, hugging each of them in turn. Eddie had now been hugged more in the last hour than he had in the preceding six months; even when Richie had visited him in New York, they'd only hugged once, right before he left, neither of them quite sure when to let go. "Oh, how are you? How was your flight?"

"It was great, although we flew in separately," Ben said. Patty ran ahead to hold the door open for them, and they piled into the house. It was lovely inside, too, smelling of popcorn and wood-burning fire, with tasteful artwork and beaming photos of Patty and Stan hanging on the walls. From another room came the sound of Mike's deep laugh. "Your home is so beautiful—oh wait, should we take our shoes off—hi Stan!"

Stan, who'd just entered the hallway, smiled at them. "Hi guys," he said, and then he, too, disappeared into the orbit of Bev's coat.

Eddie was about to go and hug Stan too, or at least offer to shake his hand, when another person appeared in the kitchen doorway. A tall, floppy-haired person with glasses and an overbite, a person who made Eddie's stomach clench.

"What's up, fucknuts," Richie said.

"Fuck you," Eddie said, and then, emboldened by all the hugging, he threw himself at Richie's chest.

Richie stumbled back a step, wheezing out a laugh. "Did you get shorter? You look like you got shorter."

"Fuck off, dickstain," Eddie said. He didn't let go. "What the fuck, Richie, you look good."

"I look like microwaved dogshit, man, I flew in from fucking Vancouver, I haven't slept in three days."

"Wow," Patty said faintly. Eddie stepped back from Richie, turning to look at her. Her eyes were wide behind her glasses. "The two of you have quite the vocabularies."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Eddie said guiltily. "Bad habits."

"It's fine, Eddie," Patty said. "I just spend my days with kindergarteners, mostly, so I'm not used to it."

Eddie still felt bad, even though Patty's smile was warm and forgiving. Stan didn't look mad, either—he looked deeply unimpressed, the way he always had done at Richie and Eddie's antics. "Well, still," Eddie said. "Thank you. For having us."

The hall had not been designed to fit six adult people, so Stan took their coats and Patty led the way into the kitchen. Eddie, though, hung back, and as soon as their hosts had left, he turned and jabbed Richie sharply in the side. "You got me in fucking _trouble,_ " he said to Richie, who merely laughed.

"What else is new?" Richie said, massaging the patch of side where Eddie had whacked him. And Eddie, against his better judgment, smiled.

Bill and Mike were already in the kitchen, sitting on barstools with beers sweating by their elbows, but they stood and threw their arms around Eddie when he came into the kitchen at last. "Eddie!" Mike said, compressing Eddie so hard Eddie's chest ached along the scar tissue. "You look good!"

"You look good," Eddie said, startled. "Holy shit, the road trip's been agreeing with you, huh?"

"It's the company," Mike said smugly. Bill blushed but pulled Eddie into an embrace to hide it. The two of them looked relaxed and happy, sun-kissed from their long trip through the South and West. When Bill sat back on his barstool, Mike put a hand on his upper back; Bill didn't seem to notice at all. "How're you, Eddie? How's the new place? How's work?"

_I kissed a strange man,_ Eddie wanted to say. He didn't, though; he stuck his hands in his pockets and said, "It's going great."

He had known about Mike and Bill, obviously. Bill had sent him a long, tortured email in the spring, asking if it was okay to invite himself along on Mike's road trip; Eddie, who had never understood his own heart, let alone someone else's, had said yes but wondered if he should have said no. Luckily, it had worked out. A month later, Bill called him from a campground in Utah, well-fucked and bursting with happiness.

So Eddie had known, but he hadn't seen them together yet. They looked good. They looked happy. Bill put an arm around Mike's waist and pulled him into his side and Mike allowed himself to be moved. They made perfect sense.

"Oh," Bill said, slapping a hand on his forehead, "I almost forgot. Happy birthday, by the way!"

"Oh, Eddie, it was your birthday?" Patty said, sounding almost alarmed. Eddie, who had done nothing for his birthday since he was a teenager, shook his head.

"I mean, it was, but, it's not a big deal. I'm fine," he said.

Patty looked faintly distressed, as if it were her fault that Eddie had happened to be born forty-one years ago yesterday. "Well," she said, "Can I at least get you a drink? We have beer, wine, water—"

"I'll get you a drink, Eds," Richie said, from over by the fridge. "Stan, where d'you keep those French seltzer waters?"

"LaCroix is not actually French, Richie, how many times do I have to tell you," Eddie said, just like always, and Richie cackled, just like always. 

It was happy chaos. Stan was trying to determine what combination of pizzas would satisfy all eight of them while Patty buzzed around happily, producing drinks and coasters. Eddie started a conversation with Mike about rental cars, because he felt on solid ground discussing the relative merits of various automobiles.

"It's working out for you?" Eddie said, slightly anxious about the RV that they had left behind in Arizona, at some friend of Bill's, to come here to Atlanta. Neither of them were spectacular drivers: Bill had spent the better part of a decade being chauffeured and Mike had owned an ancient pickup truck that he drove around the plowed, sedate streets of Derry. Eddie had had middling confidence in their ability to pilot a huge RV through mountain passes. "No trouble with the brakes?"

"We get them checked regularly," Bill assured him, "You don't have to worry."

Yes, he did. He was in New York, a million miles from everyone else, and he was freshly divorced with time on his hands; all he did was worry. He had rapidly expanded his circle of people he cared about from one and a half to seven and a half, and it was... terrifying. And Mike and Bill, veering around the southwest in their second-hand RV, were an easy thing to worry about. It was harder to justify worrying about Richie. Richie was _fine_. He'd gone back to California while Eddie was still chugging morphine, and he'd been _fine_.

Eddie gradually noticed that his heart was beating double-time. The room was too loud; apart from his infrequent appearances at office happy hours, Eddie didn't go to loud places. And bars were full of low rumbles, ambient noises of a thousand conversations, most of them deadly boring. Here, Eddie wanted to listen to everything at once: Richie chatting as he dug through the fridge, handing stacks of Tupperware to Patty, who valiantly juggled them all; Bev and Ben and Stan working on the question of pizza, arguing about thin-crust and thick; and then Bill and Mike regaling him with some story about trying to fill their RV's septic tank with diesel. He couldn't concentrate on everything at once.

"Eddie!" Bev cried from the other end of the kitchen; Eddie looked up, startled. "Eddie, do you eat anchovies or no?"

He blanched. Mike laughed and slapped an open palm against his thigh. "That's a no," Bill said helpfully, and Bev tried again with, "Okay, what about Italian sausage? And hey, no jokes, boys, I want to figure this pizza out right now, I'm _starving_ —"

Eddie liked cheese pizza. He passed that instruction on to Bill and then asked Stan where the bathroom was. It was down the hall, towards the front door. Eddie didn't need to pee, but he did need to wash his hands and take deep, soothing breaths. In the quiet of the bathroom, he wished he had lotion for his hands. He wished Stan and Patty's kitchen had more soft furnishing, to muffle some of the noise. He wished he were better practiced at having fun.

A vague, cowardly part of him wished he still had his inhaler.

When he stepped out of the bathroom, something cold touched the back of his neck; Eddie nearly leapt out of his skin, but it was just Richie and a cold can of seltzer. "Happy birthday, man," Richie said, offering it to him. As Eddie cracked the can open and drank, Richie continued, "You seemed overwhelmed."

Eddie scowled fiercely at nothing in particular. "I'm fine."

"Good thing I didn't say you weren't," Richie said in a pleasant tone of voice. Eddie glared up at him. It made no difference. Richie's expression did not change, nor did he go back in the kitchen. He just stood there with Eddie, arms crossed over his stupidly wide chest, watching Eddie drink his seltzer. Eddie felt abruptly silly for making a big deal of nothing.

Grudgingly, he said, "Thank you. For the drink, not for checking up on me."

"I would literally never do that," Richie said, face solemn. "I don't give a shit if you live or die, man, I just hand out drinks."

Eddie fought a losing battle against a smile. He couldn't remember if Richie had always been so good at that—at lancing his anger before it could fester, leaving him smiling and rueful. He did it to Eddie all the time now; sometimes Eddie called Richie when he was pissed, at his shitty boss or his shitty deadlines or his unimaginably shitty ex-wife, who kept finding ways to call him at work, and Richie would skewer his rage right through.

Why the hell hadn't anyone married Richie yet, when he could do that?

"Wait," Eddie said, when Richie looked like he might return to the kitchen, "Stay still for a minute."

"Okay, sure," Richie said, easy as anything.

Eddie's palms were sweating. He wanted to hug Richie again, because it occurred to him that it was ridiculous that he hadn't touched Richie in New York beyond that one too-short hug before he left. He had a backlog of touching Richie to catch up on, but how could he cross that narrow border and just... touch him? Richie's hands were jammed in his pockets, shoulders curled forward and in. How the fuck was Eddie meant to reach out to Richie when he was doing that?

Richie, perhaps taking pity on him as he struggled for words, said, "So how's the Big Apple?"

"Uh, the same. Dirty, crowded. It's good."

"You can always come hang out on the beach with me," Richie said. Eddie was struck with a deep longing mixed with repulsion—he hated the beach, but maybe the beach with Richie wouldn't be so bad. Then again, there was just no chance that Richie reapplied sunscreen regularly enough. Richie had the look of a person who was indifferent, at best, about skin care; there were delicate little wrinkles around his eyes, tiny dark patches along his jaw. Sun damage, surely.

Eddie was starting to get angry at Richie for not using facial moisturizer with SPF, which was _insane_. Well, the concern was valid, but the mood was wrong—he couldn't insult Richie and propose to him in the same conversation.

"Or not," Richie said, because Eddie had been so deep in his head that he'd forgotten to answer Richie's question. He shrugged one of his big shoulders, pulling the fabric across his chest briefly, and tantalizingly, taut. "You probably hate the sand, and the ocean, and the sound of children's happy laughter—"

"No, I just—I really fucking missed you, dude," Eddie said.

Richie blinked at him. He had long lashes, made longer by those huge lenses. "How can you miss me? I just saw you in September."

Eddie shook his head. "That was forever ago."

Richie's smile grew until it was blinding, just as toothy as it always had been. _That_ Eddie remembered, as clearly as if Richie at thirteen was a photo imprinted on his brain. "We talk on the phone every day."

"Not the same, dickhead. And besides," Eddie said, shifting on his feet, "I always miss you."

The ring he had bought in New York was in his suitcase, which was in the rental car, in the driveway. Eddie could run and get it. Or he could pull Richie out onto the porch and explain and _then_ get the ring. His proposal to Myra had been so deeply unromantic she had not even noticed it was a proposal until he produced the ring, but this time he would do better. He wasn't going to be romantic—he wasn't good at it, and Richie would probably laugh at him—but he could at least lay out his reasons, clearly and honestly. Richie would understand. Richie would see that it made sense.

And Eddie would get to touch Richie's hand as he put the ring on him.

He started to say, "Richie, you know I—," but just then Bill tumbled into the hallway.

"Hey, idiots!" he called. "Where'd you go!"

Eddie jumped back as if he had been scalded, which made Richie make a weird noise, half laughter, half question mark. "You good, Eddie?" he asked.

Determined to play it cool, Eddie schooled his expression into normalcy and turned to Bill. Bill, still leaning halfway out the kitchen door, raised an eyebrow but he said nothing. Nothing about _that_ , anyway. "Stan wants to know if you'll eat white pizza, Eddie."

Richie was still watching Eddie closely, but the fleeting opportune moment was gone. Eddie shoved the thought of the proposal away—at least for now. Shaking his head, he followed Bill back into the kitchen, asking, "Does no one in this house eat plain cheese pizza?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings: discussions of eddie's near-death experience; eddie has reduced mobility and lingering pain in his left arm & from the clown attack and he has feelings about this; allusions to myra's and, to a lesser extent, sonia's canon-typical awfulness; a lot of swearing, like, a LOT; eddie feels like he may have (but doesn't actually have) an anxiety attack.


	2. Wednesday Morning

Because he was on vacation, Eddie slept in until 7:30. By the time Ben and Bev woke up, Eddie had done 45 minutes on the hotel gym treadmill, showered, eaten oatmeal at the continental breakfast, answered six emails from his most incompetent coworker, _and_ workshopped the text of his proposal to Richie.

Around 9:00, Bev texted him, _You awake or what?_

Eddie, hunched over his laptop, had been busy agonizing over whether Richie would understand, much less give a shit about, charitable contribution deductions for married taxpayers. That was dumb—he'd just tell Richie that he was willing to learn to cook for him and ease into the tax implications later.

_Coming down now_ , he texted, closing the IRS website and then his computer.

Once he had reconvened with Bev and Ben in the lobby, the three of them headed out to the rental car and drove to a local bakery. There, Bev purchased enough food for an army. Bagels and pastries and mountains of gleaming fresh fruit, all paid for with her new credit card, the one Tom had never touched. She was very proud of it. She signed her name, BEV MARSH, in letters so big that the cashier squinted at her, visibly wondering what her deal was.

At the house, Stan and Patty and Mike were awake; Bill and Richie were not. The smell of coffee percolating quickly roused Bill, and then Stan went to the bottom of the stairs and yelled, "Richie! While it's still daylight!"

A fluffy-haired, bespectacled Richie Tozier stumbled into the kitchen ten minutes later. He was in sweats with one leg hiked up above the knee and a faded t-shirt at least a size too small for him. He looked rumpled and soft. Extremely touchable.

"Oh my god, my hero," he said, cramming an entire cruller into his mouth. "Good morning Patty, Staniel, assorted guests. Who brought the donuts? I will give you my literal hand in marriage, right here."

A wild, desperate part of Eddie longed to cut to the chase and say, _me, Richie, I did it, no take-backs._ Instead, he did as Richie had done and stuffed his mouth full of pastries, hoping it would prevent him from speaking. This halfway worked—he immediately choked. Wheezing, he had to have Ben whack him on the back before he could breathe again.

"Easy there, Eds," Richie said with good humor, before returning his attention to the fruit basket.

Breakfast was a leisurely affair. Stan had begun his monumental preparations for the Thanksgiving feast, so a long section of the countertop was devoted to food prep; everyone else took seats where they could, at the breakfast bar or at the circular table. Bev and Ben were sharing a croissant, while Mike and Bill cozied up over the Atlanta Journal-Constitution crossword together. Richie was pretending to be Stan's sous-chef, rambling in a fake Swedish accent while Stan pretended not to enjoy himself.

Eddie, naturally the odd one out, lurked by the fridge, sipping black coffee, listening to Richie's voice. The accent made him basically incomprehensible, all mashed-up consonants and nonsense syllables. But Eddie clearly heard Richie say, as he tickled Stan's face with a sprig of cilantro, "Stick it in da maaaahcrowave, bork bork bork."

Eddie snorted a laugh into the collar of his shirt.

"You okay, Eddie?" Patty said, startling him. Hastily, Eddie nodded.

"Doing great."

Patty gave him a look that Eddie couldn’t easily interpret—it was a smile but her eyebrows also raised, as if she didn’t quite believe him. It was obvious that Patty was a teacher; she had a pleasantly no-nonsense air about her, warmly authoritative and kind. Eddie was torn between liking her and being vaguely nervous of disappointing her. You couldn't be a member of Bill Denborough's gang or best friends with Richie Tozier without getting on the bad side of most teachers, but Eddie had always tried to toe the line. His impulsive asshole nature reared its head in the end, but Eddie _did_ try.

Behind them, Bill slapped his pencil down and held the newspaper aloft. "Finished!"

"Wow," Stan called, from where he was dicing carrots for mirepoix. Patty wandered over to him—Eddie sighed in relief at being released from her scrutiny—and carefully rolled up his sleeve to the elbow where it had started to slip. "Only took you half an hour for the Wednesday crossword."

Actually it was the Tuesday crossword, but the Losers were not snitches, so they all kept their mouths shut. Mike, meanwhile, stretched his arms behind his head. His joints popped; Eddie winced on his behalf. "So what's our plan for this morning?"

"Well, Stan will take another few hours doing prep work," Patty said. She was still standing at Stan’s side, but now she was folding linen napkins into pretty little fans. "But if there's something you'd like to do, we can."

There was a very inauspicious gleam to Mike's eye. Eddie saw it even from his spot near the fridge and he felt afraid. Sure enough, Mike said in an innocent voice, "Anyone want to play a little touch football? It _is_ Thanksgiving, after all."

"No," said Eddie, Bill and Richie all at once.

Bev and Ben exchanged a look without any particular enthusiasm; meanwhile; Patty said, "Oh, I think that sounds really fun!"

"I'm gay," Richie called, "I don't do sports."

It was a joke. That was Richie's sense of humor—he'd been blaming a multitude of things on being gay ever since he'd come out. Or at least he had been to Eddie: when he forgot what Eddie's job was, or if he mixed up his days and missed a call, he'd just say, "Sorry, I'm gay." Eddie hadn't known if this was a modern in-joke he was missing out on, or just Richie. He hadn't dared ask, either. He'd just accepted it and moved on.

Apparently Richie wasn't making these kinds of jokes to Bill, though, because Bill's head whipped upwards. Sounding pissed even though they were nominally on the same side, he said, "What the fuck does _that_ mean?"

Richie had a habit—a talent, really—of rolling his eyes with his whole body. He raised and lowered his shoulders, palms open, pantomiming disgust. "You've been sucking dick for like, ten minutes, Bill, don't try to police my gay credentials."

Mike put a restraining hand on Bill's wrist. "Richie—" Stan started to say.

"Richie," Eddie said, surprising even himself, "It is not even _noon_ , you fucking monster. Beep beep."

There was a lull, wherein Eddie expected his words to accomplish nothing and for Bill and Richie to go at each other's throats, as they had done periodically since childhood. Except when the lull ended, it was with Richie shrugging and saying, "A beep for _that?_ Not that I don't deserve it, just. Jesus, it's a holiday."

"It's the day before a holiday," Stan pointed out as he whacked Richie on the knuckles with a spoon. Richie, unchastened, stuck his fingers in his mouth, hissing; meanwhile Stan sent Eddie a small, private nod of approval. Possibly gratitude. A warm frisson of pleasure sparked in Eddie’s stomach at solving this problem. It was marred only slightly by the fact that Richie wasn't actually paying attention to him. Also the sight of Richie with his fingers in his mouth made Eddie's nerves feel like sandpaper, but Eddie had _no_ idea what that was about, so he just ignored it.

The moment over, Stan turned to the rest of the group to say, "As for the rest of you, please go play football. I cannot make dinner with seven people underfoot."

Nobody dared argue with the cook, so they all finished their breakfasts, threw on their coats and trooped out the back door.

The Blum-Uris backyard was ringed with an actual white picket fence—Eddie hadn’t known that was still fashionable, let alone that Stan would be into that, but it was visually striking. Piling out the door, they all emerged into the yard while the sun streamed weakly through an embankment of clouds the color of lead.

"So," Eddie said, as they stood on the deck that overlooked the grass and the flower beds and the picket fence, “Does anyone actually know how to play football?"

Eddie had made it a moral point to never learn anything about football, because in high school all the worst assholes played football, and in the financial sector, all the worst assholes played fantasy football. Eddie liked baseball, which was an elegant sport, full of meaningful statistics and historical significance. Not that he was gearing up to suggest a game of baseball either—ever since his upper body had been used as a pin cushion by an alien clown, Eddie couldn’t throw for shit.

The group looked at each other, then at Bill. "Mike," Bill said, still crabby, "This was _your_ idea."

Mike shrugged, making the pompom on his knit _Colorado_ beanie bounce. "Well, seven's not an ideal number, but I suppose we could have four on one team and three on the other?"

"That's an unfair advantage, though," Eddie pointed out. Mike shrugged again.

"Well, it's not like we're keeping score."

Eddie was appalled. "So what," he said, "We're just scrabbling in the dirt and we don't even know who _wins?_ "

"Well," Ben said, "We _are_ the Losers."

Doggedly, Eddie stayed where he was. Everyone was grinning, clearly humoring him, but Eddie could not relent on this point. "If we're playing, we're keeping score."

"Of course you want to win," Richie said, with enormous affection, "You pint-size little psychopath."

He poked Eddie in the face. Eddie knew, because he owned a mirror, that he had deep dimples in his cheeks. He also knew, from long years of friendship, that Richie enjoyed mocking him for these dimples. Seething, Eddie slapped Richie’s hand away. "I'll shove the football up your ass, Tozier."

"Hey," Bev said from where she was curled like an octopus around Ben, one of her hands firmly in the pocket of Ben's jeans, "While they're doing whatever that is, does anyone—other than Mike—know how to throw a football?"

"You mean a spiral? Yeah, it's like..." Richie did something with his arm that was so clearly not the correct motion that everyone laughed, even Eddie. Scowling, Richie threw his hands up. His shirt went up too, exposing an inch of stomach and hipbone; Eddie looked demurely at his feet. "Okay, Ben you do it."

"I can't," Ben said, "I ruined my elbow rock-climbing."

This statement cheered Eddie up enormously. He did not feel _bad_ about having a fucked-up torso and left arm, but he wasn't thrilled about it either. Having Ben, who still looked like a Brazilian soccer star, admit his limitations first made it much easier for Eddie to say, "Me too. Except, you know. Not rock-climbing."

Richie's face shone with concern for one fleeting second, and then he rounded on Bill. "Big Bill?"

"I didn't even want to play!" 

"Why aren't you asking me or Patty?" Bev asked.

" _Do_ either of you know how?"

"No," she said, "But I still want to be asked."

Everyone turned to look at Patty, who had gone to the garage and found the football in the first place. Eddie noticed for the first time that she was holding it not like a piece of athletic equipment, but cradled in her arms like a child. "Maybe we can just play catch," she suggested.

Had Eddie been in charge, he would have abandoned ship right there. But no one else objected to catch, and so they began to shed their bulky outer layers. Everyone except Bev—instead, she plonked herself down on the deck steps, perched like a bird in a nest of discarded outerwear. "You guys go play," she said, extracting a box of cigarettes from her pocket. "I'll stay here and guard your coats."

"You're no fun," Ben said, but he kissed her cheek. Then he and Richie raced off down the rolling lawn, scaring off some birds that had been pecking in the grass. Bill, Mike and Patty came along after them, Patty still holding the football securely under her arm. Bill looked less sulky now, which seemed chiefly due to the fact that Mike had loaned him his own knit cap. Bill was wearing it jammed over his head, slight tufts of hair sticking out over his ears and brow. Instead of pouting, his face had turned pink and rather self-satisfied, and he let Mike tow him along to join the others.

Eddie neglected to follow. Instead, he hung back with Bev.

"Not going to play catch?" she asked.

Inspecting the bleached wood of the deck for dirt, Eddie brushed some old leaves off with his good arm. "What's the point," he said. "You just throw it back and forth, you can't even win."

Bev gave him a knowing look as Eddie climbed up and settled heavily onto the step beside her. "I was going to smoke," she said, tapping the cigarette box with a finger.

"Don't," Eddie said. "It's terrible for you."

"Yes, but it feels so good while it's being so terrible."

Eddie smiled to let her know she could do what she wanted. Shrugging, Bev clicked her lighter. When she exhaled, she did it away from Eddie, which was kind. Sitting on the steps gave them a good vantage point of the other Losers as they spread out across the scrubby winter grass. Mike took the ball and threw it in a lovely arc, straight at Richie, who flubbed it; it landed at his feet and bounced, end over end. Richie, undaunted, scooped the ball up and tossed a shovel pass that missed Patty's outstretched arms by a mile.

"Whoops!" Richie yelled. "Sorry Pats!"

"It's fine," Patty said. This time, when Richie tossed the ball in her vicinity, she lunged for it and caught it by her fingertips.

Football players they were not. Middle-aged and mostly unathletic, their ratio of successful catches to dropped balls was about even. But they seemed to be having fun. Ben might have blown his elbow out but he could toss underhand with decent accuracy, and Mike, clearly showing off for Bill's benefit, threw perfect spiral passes to Patty way at the other end of the yard. Neither Bill nor Richie could throw or catch worth a damn, but Bill was trying and Richie was spontaneously composing theme music that made the others giggle.

Eddie hid his smile at Richie's antics behind his hand, pretending to warm his cold fingers by huffing on them. On the field, Patty had possession of the football and was explaining something that involved the words _flea flicker_ , which sounded like Eddie's own bespoke nightmare and not a sporting term. Eddie shook his head. "Patty's something, huh?" he said.

"Hell of a woman. Also, it's nice not to be the only one."

As always, Eddie was struck by a thunderbolt of guilt, even though Myra would have hated this trip and Bev as well. Shrugging it off, he tried to make a joke of it. "Too bad Myra was busy."

Bev snorted out a laugh that was half-amusement, half-relief. "God," she said, tossing her hair around so that it glinted in the sun, "It's really fucking great to be divorced, isn't it?"

He and Bev and Bill had all gotten divorced post-Derry, but they had not gotten the same divorce. Audra, simply baffled by the version of Bill that returned from Maine, had divorced him amicably. Tom Rogan, in contrast, had gone scorched-earth on Bev _and_ their company. There had been media coverage; Bev had to take out a restraining order. After a long and bloody battle, she had dissolved the entire company, all of it, her life's work, rather than let Tom have it.

For his part, Eddie _loved_ being divorced. Yes, Myra had accused him of every marital transgression imaginable; yes, she still called his desk from blocked numbers to scream at him. But these were a reasonable price to pay for freedom. He could do what he liked now—he could ride the subway or kiss strange men or jet off to Atlanta for Thanksgiving. Leaving Myra was nothing but upsides. Particularly since being divorced meant he was at liberty to get married again—this time, maybe, to a person he actually gave a shit about.

"Yeah," Eddie said, watching Richie goofing around, making the others laugh. "It's pretty good."

As if he could read Eddie's mind, Richie suddenly looked up. "What are you two laughing about?" he called.

"Isn't it your turn next?" Eddie said, nodding back at their friends. A moment ago, they had been tossing the ball around in a circle—Patty, Mike, Bill, Ben, Richie. But Richie, interest waning, was now slouching away from the circle and up to the deck.

"They don't need me," Richie said. He squinted down at them, so tall he cast a shadow over their legs. "What are you two troublemakers up to?"

"Eddie won't let me smoke," Bev said, despite the lit cigarette in her hand. Eddie squawked in outrage; in response, Richie grinned with all his teeth. Eddie ignored the way that made his stomach twist. That grin on Richie's face had always spelled trouble for Eddie and anyone else caught in Richie's blast radius.

"Yeah, he's a tyrant, isn't he," Richie said.

"Oh, absolutely," Bev said. She offered the pack of cigarettes to Richie, but, to Eddie's surprise, Richie waved her off; instead he plopped himself onto the step just below Eddie, squarely between his feet. While Eddie was adjusting to _that,_ Richie twisted the knife, leaning back into Eddie's knees.

Ah, yes. Here was the trouble.

Eddie, panicking, shoved him. Not hard—he changed his mind halfway through the action. Instead of knocking Richie off him, he just poked the juncture between Richie's neck and shoulder. Hissing, Richie slapped a hand out, catching Eddie by the last knuckle of his index and middle fingers of his right hand. "Eddie, what the _fuck,_ your hands are freezing."

"I—" Eddie said. Richie did not relinquish his grip; instead he folded Eddie's hand in between his own. He reached back for Eddie's other hand and gently, exceedingly careful of Eddie's bad arm, pressed both of Eddie's hands against his cheek. Stupidly, Eddie said, "You're. Really warm."

"It's the exercise," Richie said. Eddie could feel the movement of his facial muscles as against the back of his hand. Richie had missed a spot shaving, and each word he spoke made that patch of stubble rasp against Eddie's skin. "Ugh, I can't believe Mike is making me _exercise_ on a holiday."

Eddie tossed a glance at Bev like a mayday signal. He could not handle this—Richie reclining against his legs, curling his huge hands around Eddie's and holding them daintily, letting the heat of his exertion-pink cheeks drive the chill from Eddie's fingers. Eddie wanted to marry Richie, but this was like being thrown into the deep end of the pool in concrete overshoes. He was still working out how to _hug_ Richie; meanwhile Richie was dangerously close to kissing Eddie's hand, which was only a hair's breadth of difference from Richie kissing him for real.

_Help,_ he mouthed to Bev. Bev just shook her head, as if to say, _what do you want me to do?_

With no escape route, Eddie had only his naturally abrasive personality to fall back on. "I thought you jogged," he said.

Richie laughed in response. "I did. Worst two days of my life."

Eddie had no retort for that—nothing that wasn't mean, anyway. One of Richie's greatest natural talents was winding Eddie up; Eddie, flustered, would end up snapping back, harsher than he meant to be. If Eddie opened his mouth, who _knew_ what might come out. He wasn't just flustered; his normal calibration had gone absolutely haywire. The way Richie held his hands meant that the thin skin of Eddie’s wrist brushed up against Richie’s temple. Eddie could actually feel Richie's delicate heartbeat thudding against his own.

How was Eddie meant to behave appropriately with _that_ sensation electrifying all his neural pathways?

Down on the lawn, the football zipped through the air, a flash of brown leather against the dull sky. There was a wood-fire smell on the breeze, one of the few scents of his childhood that Eddie didn't hate. It was nice to be outside in the open air like this; Eddie couldn't remember the last time he'd sat out in the sun. Having Richie serve as his own personal space heater made his brain feel like warm treacle, but an unpleasant realization still managed to wriggle its way into his sluggishly contented brain. How could Richie be warm enough, in just a long-sleeve shirt and his leather jacket? He needed gloves, Eddie decided, and a hat and scarf. It might not get cold in California but Richie toured; he'd need a decent wool overcoat, too.

While Eddie dreamily updated his mental shopping list, Richie shook his head slightly. "Is this high school or what? Skipping gym to smoke while the normie kids play lawn games."

Surprised, Bev said, "You skipped gym, Eddie?"

"It didn't seem crucial to my academic future," Eddie admitted. He was still picturing Richie in various fancy coats; it was hard to concentrate on anything else. "And Richie always talked me into it."

"We'd go sit behind the cafeteria, on those shitty picnic tables back there, kicking the shit out of each other, and Eddie would bitch about second-hand smoke," Richie said, and Eddie could hear the smile in his voice even if he couldn't see it. Eddie didn't remember kicking him all that hard. The way he remembered, Richie would wind his ankles around Eddie's and then just hold him there, keeping Eddie's sneakered feet an inch above the blacktop. Maybe Richie remembered that too; as he talked, he folded Eddie's knuckles in, closing his fingers securely into his warm palms. "Eds, you must have had the Surgeon General's report on the dangers of nicotine memorized, 'cause you recited it about once a week."

"They're bad for you," Eddie said, for maybe the millionth time.

"Yeah well," Richie said, "What's life without a little danger?"

Eddie's stomach jolted a little, remembering where he'd been almost a week ago, in that alley back in New York. The guy had said almost the same thing, and then Eddie had obligingly stuck his tongue down his throat. And now he was remembering it while Richie had Eddie's hands securely in his own, his spine pushing up against Eddie's knees.

"Uhhhh," Eddie said.

Richie craned around to look at him. "You good, Eddie?"

Luckily, Eddie didn't have to cobble together a plausible explanation for his sudden short-circuit, because Bev said, "Oh, shit, _look,_ " and pointed. Eddie and Richie both turned; on the lawn below, Ben, Mike and Patty were huddled around Bill, who had landed face-down in the grass. Mike was laughing so hard he was hunched over and gasping into his knees. Bill, with enormous wounded dignity, climbed gingerly to his feet, the pompom on Mike's borrowed cap bobbling merrily as he did so.

"What happened?" Bev called. "Richie, quit laughing."

"Mike's laughing!" Richie pointed out. Mike, who was indeed still snorting with laughter, had his arms around Bill like he was escorting a wounded soldier from a battlefield. Bill's only apparent injury was to his pride, but Patty ghosted along behind him, just in case he fell again.

Ben, bringing up the rear with the football under his arm, explained. "Patty's got a cannon for an arm. She beaned Bill in the face, and he kind of ate shit."

"I didn't—I didn't eat shit," Bill said huffily. "I _slipped_."

He obviously had eaten shit—he'd been prostrate in the dirt, and there was mud slicked all down his jeans. As he seemed otherwise uninjured, despite Mike's solicitousness, Eddie didn't feel bad about laughing, too. He did, however, startle badly when Richie dropped his hands and scrambled to his feet, out of Bill's way.

Before he could even miss the lingering heat of Richie’s touch, Richie stood in front of him and stuck out his hand. "C'mon Eds," he said. With that, he grasped Eddie's good arm and hauled him to his feet.

Once upright, Eddie flexed his fingers where Richie had held them, strong and sure. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it," Richie said.

"Well," Bev said, as she too stood up. The remaining five of them watched Mike shepherd Bill across the deck and into the house, leaving a trail of muddy footprints in his wake. "I suppose it's just not a Losers vacation unless someone ends up covered in filth."

+++

When Bill was done showering all the mud off, he joined the game of rummy that Eddie, Mike and Ben were playing in front of the fireplace. It wasn't quite cold enough to justify a roaring fire, in Eddie's opinion, but it was cozy—and the smell was nice. Stan was doing something called _blind baking_ in the kitchen, so the wood smoke and the heavenly smell of butter mixed together, permeating the entire house. Eddie could not remember being somewhere that smelled so good in his entire life.

"Rummy?" Bill said, sliding into the armchair Mike was occupying. It wasn't big enough for two adults, but neither Bill nor Mike seemed to mind. On the contrary, Mike reached, automatically, to pull Bill into his side, settling him just so. "Who's winning?"

"Ben," Mike said. "Hey, you smell good."

"Thank Stan," Bill said. He folded one leg over Mike's. "Or Patty. I don't know, I used whatever was in the shower."

This made Mike laugh and press his face to Bill's shoulder.

Baffled, Eddie surveilled this interaction over his hand of cards. Mike seemed to find Bill extremely funny, which was weird because Bill was notoriously dark and cheerless. Now they were just _looking_ at each other, googly-eyed, taking turns to simper foolishly at one another. Mike's fingers were carding through the back of Bill's straggly hair, oblivious or uncaring to the fact that Bill's hair was still dripping wet.

This was unthinkable to Eddie. They were sharing a chair, for God's sake, when there was plenty of seating available. Bev had a whole sofa to herself. The armchair they were crammed into even had an ottoman that would have made an adequate seat, in a pinch. But Mike and Bill were tangled up like pretzels, Bill squinting at Mike's hand of cards while Mike watched him adoringly.

If Eddie married Richie, would he have to give up on sitting in his own chair for the rest of his life? He thought not—Ben and Bev weren't sitting together. But they _had_ been at breakfast, ankles linked under the table. Stan and Patty were always touching each other, little orienting touches when they passed each other. Tiny greetings in the shape of a hand cupped around an elbow or a fleeting kiss to the cheek.

When Eddie was married, he and Myra had had regular, if infrequent, sex; sometimes he scooped her hair out of the shower drain. Beyond that, they didn't touch. The last time she'd touched him, months and months before Derry, was to check his back for moles. But as he'd already established, he did not love or even particularly like Myra; he had to stop using their marriage as a yardstick for comparison.

He could touch Richie. He'd hugged Richie five or six times already this vacation, and Richie had held Eddie's hands entirely of his own volition, too. Eddie had done enough preliminary research that he figured he could kiss Richie, and he refused to even _consider_ sex with Richie while in a room with all their friends, but. He could definitely touch him.

"Rummy," Ben said, startling Eddie out of his reveries. He snatched the seven Eddie had just played, even though Eddie _knew_ Ben had been hunting for sevens. Armed with a run of three, Ben discarded and went out. Another round to him. "Sorry, Eddie. But it was right there in front of me."

"Fuck," Eddie said morosely. He had two kings in his hand; he was fucked on points.

Not only had Eddie lost the hand, he'd lost the entire game—Ben went above 500 and the game was over, Eddie in last place. Mike suggested another round, but Eddie knew himself enough to know that he'd go apeshit if he lost again; consequently, he declined.

"No worries, Eddie," Mike said kindly, and he started to deal himself a game of Solitaire.

Ben hefted himself out of his chair and joined Bev on the sofa. She was leafing through a magazine, and she didn't raise her gaze as she lifted her arm so that Ben could slide under it. Eddie studied them, how they didn't need to speak or even look at each other; they just found their equilibrium at once, Ben on his phone and Bev with her magazine. Across the table from him, Bill and Mike were working on Solitaire together, chatting about the guest shower.

Two sets, two matched pairs. And then there was Eddie.

And Richie. Richie was in the kitchen with Patty and Stan, sitting at the breakfast bar, talking a mile a minute while Patty kneaded bread dough and Stan chopped brussels sprouts. Patty and Stan were a perfect set too, each moving around the other as they cooked with the kind of grace that came from long years of practice.

And Richie was—Richie. He had a mug of coffee in his hands, even though it was past noon now—Eddie frowned, thinking of his Circadian rhythms—and he was gesturing animatedly, arms outflung. The mug was too full for all those sweeping movements; as Eddie watched, the coffee slopped at the edges of the mug, dripping down Richie's hand and onto the counter.

If Eddie had been the other half of Richie's matching pair, he would get up and take the mug out of Richie's hand, and—this part of the thought was daring—he'd kiss Richie's mouth to sweeten the sting. And Richie would smile and then go right on talking, telling his story, and Eddie would hold the mug until he wanted it again.

Eddie couldn't do that. Not yet. But it _would_ be fine and normal of him to get up and go to Richie right now. He could slide onto the stool next to him and hook their ankles together, the way they had done while skipping all those gym classes. If they were going to be married, Eddie would need to learn how to sharing space with another person.

He could do it. He was doing it. Eddie Kaspbrak stood up, marched across the living room, and aimed himself at Richie's side.

Then, disaster struck. It was only a disaster in the sense of his planning, though—as he crossed the threshold from living room to kitchen, Patty suddenly lifted her head and said, "Oh! By the way, I was just thinking, does anyone need anything from the grocery store?"

Eddie faltered, because he _did_ need something. Well, two things. The relevant thing for the purposes of Patty's question, though, was potatoes. He and Bev were supposed to make mashed potatoes for Thanksgiving. Before the kiss in the alley and the idea to propose, Eddie had planned on either picking some up or texting Stan, but he had promptly forgotten all about it.

Reluctantly, he said, "We need potatoes. No, don't get up, Bev." Bev had started to rise, but Eddie waved her off. It had been his mistake, his responsibility. "I can get them."

Ben immediately undercut this gesture by saying, "I'll come too ."

"What the hell," Mike said, shrugging, "I'm in." He kissed the side of Bill's head and left the game of Solitaire to him.

Briefly, Eddie entertained the idea of foisting the potatoes off on any one of them—but he couldn't do it. He'd let his elaborate Richie-related planning obliterate all other thoughts in his head, but he had _said_ he would buy the potatoes. So he was the one who had to go and buy them. It sucked, but that was life.

"Oh, this'll be great," Patty said. She undid her apron in one graceful motion and carefully hung it from a peg by the fridge. Reaching for Stan, she kissed his cheek and left a smudge of flour on his collar. "I love having company on my errands."

From the breakfast bar, Richie called, "You leaving, Eds?"

Eddie hadn't even known Richie had noticed him hovering at the edge of the kitchen, but he nodded grimly.

"Yeah. Have to go buy potatoes."

Richie smiled, so wistful it had to be mocking. "I'll miss you every moment you're away, then."

Eddie hoped he did. And then he hoped he didn't, because it was fucked up to hope Richie would be _sad_. Then his head started to fill with static. Instead of thinking about it, he surrendered to Patty and let her bustle him out of the kitchen.

The Blum-Urises owned two miniature SUVs, one gray, one the color of a robin's egg. Mike took shotgun and Eddie and Ben climbed into the backseat, rubbing their hands together as the heat kicked on. Eddie approved of the car—it was a Japanese manufacture with good gas mileage and the interior was impeccably clean—but he did _not_ approve of Patty's driving. She reversed fearlessly around the rental cars and down the driveway, then pulled out onto the open road like she was drag-racing. Eddie, wincing, clung to the door handle with his good arm for dear life.

"Everyone comfortable?" Patty asked, as they zipped out of their pretty neighborhood and into more sedate, bland rows of tract housing. "Thank you all for coming along. It's more exciting this way."

"I bet it's exciting back at the house," Mike said cheerfully. "You realize we left all the most chaotic ones behind?"

"Not true," Ben said. "Eddie's with us."

"Fuck off," Eddie said automatically, scowling over at Ben, who beamed back at him. "I'm not _that_ bad."

"No, you're right," Mike said, "Swap Stan for Eddie, because he and Richie always end up at yelling at each other."

"Hey!" Eddie said. "We've been good this weekend! And he visited me in New York, and we were fine!"

The weekend that Richie had spent in New York had actually been... suboptimal. Eddie, hellbent on acting normally and therefore proving nothing had changed, had acted like a robot. For some reason, he had dragged Richie to various tourist traps, including the Statue of Liberty and the Brooklyn Bridge, playing tour guide to compensate for the fact that he couldn't bear to make small talk, let alone discuss anything of substance. Only when he tried to buy tickets to Rockefeller Center did Richie break it to him that he had spent the late 90s in New York and had actually seen all these shitty landmarks before.

Eddie had promptly melted down on the pull-out couch that night, agonizing over the fact that he and Richie had been in the same city for _years_ , oblivious to each other's presence.

The weekend had sucked—Eddie's back ached for weeks from the sofa bed, and Richie said he'd enjoyed playing tourist with Eddie but he was clearly _lying_ —but they had been fine. Richie, despite theoretically having feelings for Eddie, hadn't been weird. And Eddie hadn't yelled at him for abandoning him in Derry, even though he still really, really wanted to.

Mike conceded, "Richie definitely has calmed down a lot."

"He seems happier," Ben said.

Patty made a thoughtful noise as she changed lanes at speed, flipping her turn signal on for the briefest possible moment. "I don't have much to compare him to, but he does seem happy."

"He seems much more comfortable in his own skin," Mike said. He made eye contact with Eddie in the rearview mirror. "You agree, Eddie?"

Eddie dragged his palms against his chinos, wishing he had a better response than, "Sure. Yeah."

Because Richie _did_ seem happier, since Derry. This made sense—they had killed the monster from their childhood nightmares, after all. The blank that, for Eddie, had been a gaping wound in his memory had been filled in; they had found each other again. And Richie had rebooted his career, abandoned the persona that had made him so miserable, and come out to his friends and family. Of _course_ he was happier.

But if he was so happy, did he even need Eddie? Eddie was aware that what he had to offer was unorthodox—he was recently divorced, lived across the country, and had kissed one man in his entire life. He was picky, and argumentative, and anxious about most things. He was terrible at heterosexual sex, if Myra was to be believed, and he could not think about sex with _Richie_ without feeling as fragile as an eggshell. This emotional response confused him greatly, but his feelings had never behaved like other people’s. But Richie knew that already. Richie knew Eddie's emotional alignment was severely fucked up, and he liked Eddie anyway. Richie knew exactly what Eddie was like, and he liked him anyway.

This made Eddie seriously question Richie's taste, but he wasn't about to look that particular gift horse in the mouth.

One thing he did think about a lot was this: was Richie shallow? Before, Eddie would have said yes—a decent portion of Richie’s old comedy persona hinged on him exclusively dating skinny blonde women with large breasts. But Richie had quit telling those jokes and he’d never, it seemed, dated women, regardless of their attractiveness. He’d said he was dating someone in L.A. and that it wasn’t serious, but was that guy hot? He had to be. Richie was sort-of famous, and he was rich, and he was, when he bothered to try, the funniest person Eddie had ever met. And he was very attractive, if you liked them loud and slightly balding and thick through the shoulders and with hands the size of hubcaps. Didn't it follow that any guy Richie dated had to be hot?

What made a man hot? Was _Eddie_ hot?

This line of questioning felt like beestings to the brain. Eddie's breathing started to accelerate, taking on that old nervous whine; he pressed his forehead to the car window and forced himself to relax and listen to Patty and Mike chatting about local attractions. It didn’t matter if Richie thought he was hot. That wasn’t why Eddie was proposing. Eddie was proposing because Richie couldn’t cook and didn’t jog and was all alone in California. He needed someone to take care of him; Eddie could be that person. Richie might be happy now, but Eddie could make him happier.

They arrived at a large grocery store absolutely packed with other last minute shoppers. Patty reversed the SUV into a parking spot in one fluid motion, her arm on the back of Mike's headrest and her tongue between her teeth. As she threw the car into park, she said cheerfully, "Well! Here we are!"

It was a blessed relief to stumble out onto solid, stationary ground. Ben, too, looked queasy from the experience of being a passenger in Patty's car. They followed Patty into the grocery store on slightly unsteady legs, and Eddie wondered if Stan had also picked up the habit of driving like a maniac. Then he wondered how he, a person who had been forced by the state of New York to attend multiple defensive driving courses, could have arrived at a point in life where Patty's hairpin turns scared him shitless.

Once they stepped inside the store, Patty paused and pulled a folded grocery list from her purse. "Well," she said, "I only need a few things. Meet back here in fifteen minutes?"

With that, they dispersed in all directions. Except Mike, who conspicuously did not go in any particular direction but instead followed Eddie over to the produce section.

"What are you looking for?" Eddie asked, as they fell into step together.

"Nothing," Mike said simply. "Just needed to stretch my legs. Sometimes when Bill drives, I'll just sit in the backseat and do push-ups, just for something to do."

That didn't sound safe—being unbelted in a crashing vehicle was tantamount to letting off a loose projectile—but Mike was a grown man. Plus, as the person who stayed behind in Derry for twenty miserable years, Eddie strongly believed that Mike should get to do whatever he wanted, for the rest of time.

"I figured you like, read him poetry or something."

Mike smiled. "That too."

That sounded nice. Eddie was skeptical of poetry, but he was very glad that Bill and Mike had found each other. He was glad, too, that Bill had wanted to spend his days piloting an RV with Mike through the continental United States. Eddie hated camping, but it had not sat right with him that Mike was all alone with his RV and his fifty-state guidebook. Now that Bill had volunteered himself as Mike's co-pilot and live-in lover, Eddie was free to remain in New York—with its indoor plumbing, bodegas, and two baseball stadiums—without worrying about Mike's happiness on the road.

They reached the bins of bagged potatoes, but Eddie did not grab a bag. Instead, he said, "Mike. Is it nice? Being in love with Bill?"

"Pretty good, yeah," Mike said without hesitation. "We have compatible traumas, similar outlooks on life. He makes me happy. Plus, I won't lie. The sex is incredible."

Eddie, blushing, looked quickly at Mike's face to check if he was joking, but Mike didn't seem to be; he was staring off into the middle distance, expression dreamy. Eddie had _never_ had that reaction to thinking about sex, and he didn't know if he was jealous or impressed or simply intimidated.

To cover up his own awkwardness, he asked briskly, "Do you ever think about marrying him?"

"I think about spending the rest of my life with him, but I admit, I'm flexible on the details. I like the idea of him being stuck with me, though," Mike said. "Why?" he added, narrowing his eyes. Not suspiciously, but as if Eddie were a particularly interesting passage in a book, one that required consideration at some length. It was better than that dreamy, intense expression he had when he thought about sex with Bill, though, so Eddie would take it.

"You think Richie would be interested? In getting married?"

Mike was staring at him now, eyebrows up around his hairline. "I don't know. Why don't you ask him?"

"Believe me," Eddie said, "I'm going to."

The potatoes were sorted into five-pound bags of several different varieties; Eddie, indifferent, grabbed two sacks of Russet and hoped for the best. They were bulky and unwieldy, and he had to bear the weight on his right side so he wouldn't drop them, but Mike didn't offer to help. Good—Eddie would have bit his head off if he'd offered.

Patty and Ben were loitering just past the checkout line when Mike and Eddie returned to the front of the store. They each carried shopping bags; the bag in Patty's arms had a bouquet of sunny daisies peeking out over the brown paper. "For Stan," she said, when Eddie asked. "He likes fresh flowers in the house, especially on special occasions. Did you get everything you need?"

Eddie looked at the flowers Patty was carrying, ideas forming in his head. "I'm working on it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings: richie is self-deprecating about his sexuality and, when called out on it, is an asshole; discussions of eddie's disability and bev & eddie's previous abusive marriages; mentions of richie's comedy-based misogyny; eddie continues to be utterly and marvelously oblivious to his own relationships, sexuality and feelings.
> 
> you may have noticed the chapter count went up, because the 2nd chapter turned out wayyy longer than i had anticipated but also, if i don't meet my self-imposed wednesday posting deadline i'll die. i'm trying to get this done by the end of the year so there may be another chapter this weekend; if not, see you next week!


	3. Blackout Wednesday

"How much butter?" Eddie asked.

Bev flicked a scrap of potato peel off her phone screen so she could scan the recipe for their next step. She and Eddie were in the kitchen, huddled over the massive crock of peeled, boiled potatoes, while Stan hovered at a respectful distance. 

"The recipe calls for half a cup," Bev said at last. Then she tapped her chin. "How much is half a cup?"

"One stick," Stan chimed in.

Eddie ignored him, because Stan had been dropping cooking hints all afternoon. Stan was also elbow-deep in a dead turkey, which made it difficult to take him seriously. Apparently there wouldn't _only_ be Thanksgiving salmon—upon their triumphant return from the grocery store, there was a fifteen pound turkey thawing in the fridge. "Did you think we weren't going to have turkey, too?" Stan had said, dryly amazed at Eddie's audacity. "It's _Thanksgiving._ "

Stan was annoying like that, but he was also correct—the packaging indicated one stick equalled half a cup. Eddie unwrapped a stick, chopped the butter into squares and then dumped them into the crockpot. They immediately melted into creamy rivulets of gold.

"That doesn't feel like _nearly_ enough," Bev said, even as she swirled the potatoes and butter together. "Put in another stick."

"Isn't that too much?"

Bev shrugged. "Who's gonna stop us?"

Eddie did as she commanded, ignoring the ancient part of him that worried about the saturated fat content. Of the two of them, Bev alone had experience making mashed potatoes. Not in this quantity, but she and Ben had been living together for nearly a year now. When they were in Manhattan, she said, Ben was her hot arm-candy for industry parties. When they were upstate, Ben took her hiking and taught her to cook.

That was smart, Eddie thought: having _two_ people who could cook. If Richie agreed to marry him, Eddie could get better at cooking and then teach Richie. Planned redundancy. And then when Richie traveled for work Eddie wouldn't have to worry he'd go weeks without home-cooked meals. Unless Richie gave up touring, or, shit, maybe Eddie could go fully WFH and follow him on tour?

That wouldn't work. Eddie hated traveling and besides, he wasn't going to be Richie's Deadhead. He'd just have to find a way to sneak nutritionally sound food into Richie's suitcase instead.

The mashed potatoes were now taking on a distinctly yellow color from all the butter. Bev poured a heaping measuring cup of milk in, then churned it all together with the hand mixer. When she turned the machine off, Eddie said, with all the delicacy he possessed, "Hey, so. Being with Ben. How's that?"

"It's really good," Bev said, "What a weird and not at all pointed question, Eddie."

"I wasn't sure! Because of the divorce."

If Bev had ever loved Tom she sure hadn't by the time she went to Derry, but sometimes people were sensitive about marriages ending. Even a marriage as festered and ugly as Bev and Tom's.

Grimacing, Bev stabbed the mixer into a lump of potato. "Well, I was getting divorced either way, because being with Tom was like having my leg in a fucking bear trap." After a moment, though, her face cleared. "Ben? Is extra. Ben is gravy."

"I'm glad," Eddie said. "You guys seem like you're really in love."

Instead of flipping the mixer back on, Bev pursed her lips and put the machine down. "Can I tell you a secret?" she said, addressing both Eddie and Stan, who was still fussing with the turkey. "We weren't, at first. At first it was just relief, and sex, and nostalgia. But I still needed somewhere to go, and Ben offered. After a month of being together every single minute, we hit this rough patch." She closed her eyes for a second, then shook her head. "Like, screaming at each other, _you don't know me, you only love the idea of me._ That shit."

"Jesus," Eddie said; Stan said nothing.

"It wasn't so bad," Bev said, shrugging. "I mean, I was upset, but we needed to get it out of our systems, you know?"

She and Stan exchanged a glance then, a look of mutual recognition. Eddie had no idea what that look was meant to imply—was it _normal_ to have huge fights with your partner where you both said everything that was wrong with each other? Fights with Myra were to be endured and ignored, nothing more. She never listened and she _never_ changed; Eddie had given up on trying to make his marriage better after year two or three.

Unlike Eddie and Myra, Bev and Ben seemed to actually like each other. But a part of Eddie still worried. "But you're good now?" he asked.

"Oh, we're great. Renting the place in the city really helped. Now when I stay with him it's a choice I'm making, not just a favor he's doing me. And I missed the city. God, I missed it," she said, and her voice took on a far-away quality, as if she were in Manhattan in her mind's eye. "Going to work, hot yoga, a party and a poetry reading all in the same day. Running into someone I haven't seen in ten years! Meeting new, interesting people all time! You know what I mean?"

Eddie had no idea what she meant. Eddie went to work and the grocery store and, on vanishingly rare occasions, office happy hours. But he was glad for her, and glad for Ben, that they had found a way to live that worked for them. "Compromise is important," he agreed.

"Is it ever," said Stan, coming up behind them. He was holding the salt-and-pepper shakers, and he handed them to Bev as he spoke. "After college, Patty wanted to move to Florida. Palm Beach, where her parents are from. Atlanta was our compromise."

"I really can't picture you on a beach, Stan," Bev said as she seasoned the potatoes. Eddie couldn't either, but he supposed that Stan and Patty were sensible enough to invest in adequate sun protection and use it regularly. One of the magnets on their fridge was an advertisement for a dermatologist, and Stan had only the faintest lines around his eyes. That was good—Eddie doubted that Stan could pull off crow's-feet as well as Richie did.

All this talk of beaches and New York and compromise had Eddie thinking about where, exactly, he and Richie would live, assuming Richie was interested in matrimony. While he ruminated on this, Eddie picked up the hand mixer but didn't turn it on. He liked his apartment, but he'd expected to outgrow it eventually. Was Richie tied to L.A.? Was Eddie going to have to move to California? God, he hoped not—Eddie could never be a _Dodgers_ fan.

Nudging him in the side with her elbow, Bev said, "What's going on in that head of yours, honey?"

"Oh. Nothing," Eddie said, and then he drowned out any follow-up questions with the roar of the mixer.

When the potatoes were fluffy and whipped to an inch of their lives—and had passed muster with Stan, who nodded approvingly—Bev carried the giant crockpot to the extra fridge in the garage. She huffed audibly as she did so. She'd had to peel all the potatoes too, because Eddie's fine motor control rebelled at the thought of gripping _and_ peeling at the same time. Eddie knew there was no way he could have done either task, but he felt bad nonetheless. Having different capabilities, post-Derry, was morally neutral, and it was miles better than being dead—he knew this—but damn it, Eddie wanted to be able to carry heavy things or peel vegetables without his arms shaking.

But he couldn't, and that wasn't changing. So he helped Stan load the dishwasher instead.

Stan shooed him away when Eddie offered to help with the remaining cooking; since Eddie's feet ached from the tile floor, he was happy to be dismissed. The others were in the living room, in more or less the same position they had been when Bev and Eddie started cooking. Abandoning Stan to his work, Eddie went in see what they were doing. 

By this he meant he went over to see what _Richie_ was doing.

Richie was, predictably, in the middle of the action. He was sitting on the couch with Mike, his long limbs draped everywhere, eyes focused on the TV. Bill and Patty sat in the armchairs, while Ben was over by the window, politely ignoring the television and reading a book. They had put on a movie—earlier they had been watching sitcom Thanksgiving episodes, but someone must have tired of that and suggested a movie—but it wasn't one that Eddie recognized. Even if he did know it, Eddie would have paid the TV no mind. Richie's elbow was thrown carelessly over the armrest, his wrist dangling an inch from Eddie's leg, and it was there that Eddie's attention concentrated.

If he were daring, he could press closer until he was within Richie's reach; Richie could touch his waist, or even slide his hands under Eddie's shirt. Eddie would let him.

"What are you watching?" he asked, because he wasn't daring.

" _Plane, Trains and Automobiles,_ " Richie said. He noticed Eddie hovering there awkwardly, bathed in the blue light of the TV. In a move straight from high school, Richie reached over and punched Mike in the arm. "Move over, Mike, let him put his bony ass down."

Astonishingly, Mike did so. He shoved Richie's head, though, and that made Richie's head snap back and his glasses dip low across his nose, but it didn't stop him from grinning widely.

Eddie, unwillingly charmed, gave up and crawled into the narrow space between Richie's body and Mike. "Fuck you," he said. "I'm not bony."

Richie snorted and stretched his arm out behind Eddie's head. "Sure you aren't."

On screen, Steve Martin was arguing with the guy who'd played Uncle Buck—Eddie forgot his name. Everyone was watching raptly except Eddie, who had no idea what was going on. When the next few minutes of the movie failed to reveal what was happening or who the characters were in relation to each other, Eddie gave up on the whole enterprise. Instead, he focused on Richie: the rise and fall of his chest, the bulk of his thigh where it brushed against Eddie's own leg. He wasn't doing anything—just sitting there quietly—and yet Eddie couldn't pay attention to anything else.

He wondered if he and Richie should have a fight. The conversation with Bev and Stan in the kitchen made Eddie think that he should know how to fight with Richie; apparently it was a necessary skill for non-horrible marriages. Eddie knew he could provoke him, if he chose. Richie remained ludicrously easy to piss off, even on the cusp of middle age, and when he felt cornered, he struck below the belt. He'd done just that to Stan in Derry Hospital. Neither of them acknowledged that they'd been arguing, but whatever they'd fought about had been so bad that Richie had fled the state soon after. Or so Eddie assumed, anyway—Richie had never given him a straight answer why he'd vanished like that.

Eddie could ask him why. It would be like lobbing a stick of dynamite into their pleasant weekend, but it would absolutely get Richie mad enough to fight, right here on the couch.

He was dying to know the answer, but if he was honest, he had no interest in arguing. Richie was warm, and his chest rose and fell like a metronome. He had very good limbs, Eddie thought idly, as Richie cackled at the movie, hard enough to shake the couch cushions. Strong and solid. Soft, though. Good to touch, even incidentally.

A few incomprehensible scenes later, his phone buzzed. Moving as little as possible, Eddie fished it from his pocket and held it against his chest, trying not to distract the others. A text from Devon, sent to him and Melissa: Devon holding his infant daughter, inexplicably named Hunter, in front of an uncooked turkey nearly as big as she was. Stacked all around them were foil chafing trays of various sizes. _Master chef in training! Mother-in-law won't have a clue!_ Devon had written underneath.

Richie nudged his shoulder against Eddie. "Who're you texting?"

"Devon," Eddie whispered. "He works in my office. Don't be nosy."

"You're working? Eds, it's a holiday, lighten up, man."

"I'm not working," Eddie said, and he showed Richie the picture. Richie cooed over the baby and her pink onesie, which—Eddie didn't even know _what_ to think about that. "He, uh. He's just texting me because he thinks he can fool his mother-in-law into thinking he cooked the Thanksgiving dinner he's special ordering."

"Ah," Richie said, peering over his glasses to inspect the picture. "These are the work friends. Where's the other one? The mean one?"

"Melissa? She's not mean. She's funny."

Richie laughed and handed Eddie back his phone. Their fingers brushed. As usual, Eddie felt lightly electrocuted, even though Richie's other hand was still snug against Eddie's shoulders. Repeated exposure to Richie's touch was doing _nothing_ to decrease the way it made him feel gooey inside. "Of course _you_ can't tell the difference."

Bill shushed them. Richie, rolling his eyes, mimed zipping his lips. To do this, he had to bring his arm over Eddie's head, complete his silly little pantomime, and then put his arm back. Only this time, his arm wasn't quite aligned with the back of the sofa. This time, Richie let his arm fall snugly along the tops of Eddie's shoulders.

Eddie froze in place like a prey animal. His entire mission in life became staying utterly, perfectly still. If he moved, Richie might pull away, and more than anything, Eddie wanted to stay here, just like this, until the heat death of the universe.

This was even better than holding hands on the deck. That had been to keep Eddie's hands from freezing; there could be no ulterior motive to the casual way Richie's hand trailed down Eddie's arm. It felt so good that Eddie relented on the issue of no-moving-not-ever and inched closer to Richie, as subtly as he dared. Unfortunately, Richie noticed; fortunately, though, he responded by hauling Eddie closer until their thighs pressed together from hip to knee. This new angle meant that the back of Eddie's neck fit into the divot of Richie's elbow like a key in a lock—they fit together. Two halves, Eddie thought, almost dizzy with pleasure.

He tried to calculate how many minutes had passed since he sat down, but it was impossible. The movie onscreen was older—probably 1980s or early 1990s, judging by the picture and sound quality. Based on its age, its runtime was unlikely to exceed two hours. This meant that Eddie had some number of minutes left to sit here with Richie holding him snugly, the base of his palm pressing lightly against Eddie's bum shoulder, but how many exactly? If this were a theoretical problem, Eddie could make an estimate based on context clues. But it wasn't theoretical. It was happening now. At this very moment Eddie was sitting on a couch in Stan's living room, soaking up Richie's touch like a lizard basking in the sun.

Then the movie ended.

The credits appeared with absolutely no warning. The movie was just suddenly over and everyone started talking and turning on the overhead lights again. "Well!" Mike said, as he got up to stretch. "That was pretty funny. Good suggestion, Rich."

"When are you guys gonna accept I have impeccable taste?" Richie said, at the same moment that he took his arm off Eddie's shoulders. One or both of them had been sweating lightly—probably Eddie, he thought guiltily—and there was an unpleasant _peeling_ sensation when Richie unstuck his inner arm from the back of Eddie's neck. But Richie didn't seem troubled by this. He didn't even seem to _notice_ , just turned his head and said, "So, Eds? What'd you think?"

Horrified, Eddie stared back into Richie's big blue eyes. He got _sweat_ on Richie's skin. Eddie didn't think he'd ever sweat on _Myra_ and they'd had sex, for God's sake.

"Eds?" Richie prompted again, shaking his shoulder.

"Uhhhh," Eddie said, and then, "Bathroom."

He escaped then, nearly bumping into Mike and then tripping, only slightly, on Patty's foot. Eddie apologized profusely even as he fled into the hall bathroom.

He flipped the lightswitch and blinked at his own reflection. Color flooded his cheeks, and his eyes were practically bugging out of his skull. He ordered himself to calm down. It was a _tiny_ bit of sweat. Eddie had bled profusely over Richie back in Derry, but Richie's affections for him remained undiminished. Also, _Richie_ walked around with sweaty palms all the time. It would be hypocritical of him to object.

But Eddie didn't _want_ to sweat on Richie. He wanted to do everything right, the first time. He was tired of feeling wrong-footed and dizzy every time Richie smiled at him or brushed up against him. In a perfect world, Eddie would come out of this bathroom and be _charming_. Richie would see him being cool and be impressed and say yes without hesitating, whenever Eddie mustered up the courage to ask.

Inspiration struck him, then and there.

Exiting the bathroom, he returned to the living room. The others were still scattered about, discussing what their next activity should be. Bev had returned from the kitchen at some point, and she and Ben were curled up on the windowseat together. Eddie guessed they looked more or less exactly how he and Richie had looked five minutes ago—Ben's arm around Bev, her leaning serenely into his side.

"I guess," Ben was saying, "We could always play more card games?

Eddie, still standing in the doorway, cleared his throat. "Hey, like—does anyone want to go to a bar?"

There was a pause, wherein everyone digested that. "A bar?" Bill repeated.

"I mean," Bev said, shrugging, "I guess it's traditional. It's Blackout Wednesday."

Ben wrinkled his classically handsome nose. "I don't think I'm going to go _anywhere_ for Blackout Wednesday."

"Well, we could go to a restaurant, too," Eddie suggested, because he was flexible. Sometimes.

Mike said, "Isn't tonight the night you're supposed to go out in your hometown and fuck your high school classmates?"

"That's every night for some of us," Bill said, catching Mike in a kiss.

Well, that was revolting, and also not technically true, because Mike had never gone to their school. But Bill seemed not opposed to the idea, which boded well for convincing the others. Eddie had known that the suggestion was going to be dicey to sell to the group—he didn't even like bars, he couldn't blame the others for being skeptical. But Eddie was _likeable_ at bars. Or at least, his coworkers liked him. Eddie with one drink in him was charming and interesting and told appropriate funny anecdotes when conversation hit a lull. The Mets fan in the alley had also found Eddie not without his charms, but Eddie refused to think about him. 

Plus, they hadn't actually eaten a meal since breakfast. They had grazed intermittently all day—Bev had bought an abundance of breakfast, and Patty had set out snacks periodically— but Eddie could stand to eat something more substantive.

Mostly, though, he wanted Richie to see him being cool.

He looked over at Richie then, trying to gauge his interest. To his delight, Richie slapped his hands against his knees and said, "Look, if the birthday boy wants to go to a bar, we can make that happen. Come on. Let's all go to fucking Applebee's or something, okay? Nachos for Ben, one dollar shitty cocktails for the rest of us."

Eddie very much doubted the dietary soundness of _Applebee's_ , but cocktails were good. And Richie's approval of the plan meant more than anything else, if he was honest. Of course, Richie promptly ruined Eddie's momentary satisfaction by saying, "Besides, sometimes Applebee's has karaoke. What do you say, Eds?" Here he wiggled his eyebrows outrageously, grinning with all his teeth. "Little birthday rendition of Love Shack?"

Eddie said flatly, "I fucking hate you."

Richie, undaunted by this obvious and flagrant lie, stuck out his tongue and turned to the others. "So that's a yes, right?"

They seemed at least on the fence, if not raring to go. Ben shrugged, which Eddie was counting as a _yes_. Patty and Stan, who was still in the kitchen tidying up, exchanged a look across the whole length of the house. Stan rolled his eyes but he also shrugged as if to say, _what can you do?_

Unsurprisingly, it was Bill who made the decision. "Fine," he said, "Let's all go to Applebee's for Blackout Wednesday."

+++

It turned out there was an Applebee's a mere ten minutes away from Stan and Patty's house. It sat just off the main road, sharing its parking lot with a TGI Friday's and a Chili's. Eddie rode there in the first Uber with Stan, Patty and, oddly enough, Bill. This had not been intentional. People were still getting ready when the first car arrived, including Richie, who could be heard on the ground floor wailing from upstairs that he hadn't brought his "good flamingo shirt." And so, Eddie shared the backseat with Stan and Bill instead of Richie, mourning the way Richie's limbs would, no doubt, have squished up against his.

The driver dropped them off in front of the neon-lit vestibule, and they filed in one after the other. The hostess said a table would be ready for them in about ten minutes, so they settled in to wait. The overhead lights were bright and tinted primary colors; the white in Bill's hair shone red and yellow by turns. "I don't think I've ever actually been to an Applebee's," Patty said conversationally, as Eddie inspected the framed kitsch on the walls.

"Me neither," Stan said.

"I have," Bill said. "Sometimes there's just not a lot of options on the road. And the fries are good."

By the time the others showed up, they were seated and had just started on a round of margaritas. Eddie's stomach roiled when they all came in, laughing together: he was remembering the Jade of the Orient, when they had all met up and then spent the weekend fighting for their lives. Plus, Richie was wearing a hideously garish pink Hawaiian shirt with a flamingo-in-a-lei pattern, and he had left it unbuttoned to the second button.

Eddie took a huge gulp of his margarita before he even attempted speech. "What are you _wearing_ ," he said.

"I know," Richie said, sounding mournful, as he slid into the same side of the booth as Eddie and Stan. His glasses were low on his nose. Eddie wanted to slide them up his face for him; would that be suave or dorky? "You should see my other flamingo shirt. If I'd known we were gonna take you somewhere nice for your birthday, I woulda packed it."

"Fuck off," Eddie said. The closer Richie got to him, the harder it was to think. The booth had not been designed with eight adults in mind, and it was cramped. When Richie finally settled himself, Bev on the outer edge, there was literally no space that wasn't occupied by Richie, or Richie's jacket, or Richie's body heat and warmth. Eddie took another large gulp of his drink.

"So this is Applebee's," Bev said, craning her head around. She had put on lipstick, for some reason, but she looked pretty. "What are you guys drinking?"

"Margaritas," Patty said. "They're not very good but they _are_ strong."

"Perfect," Bev said, smiling a huge crimson grin. "I'll get us some. Ben, you want a soda? And hey, birthday boy, you need another?"

Figuring that by the time the server made it back over, he'd be done with his first, Eddie nodded.

The restaurant was decently busy, but more people kept arriving until almost all the tables were full. It was a mix of families grabbing a quick meal on the road and people like them, who had come for dinner before their cheap drinks. The servers were polite but frazzled; it took a while before Eddie's second margarita arrived. Not that he minded. Like Patty said, they weren't good but they were very strong. 

Stan had suggested ordering fries to split among the table while they waited for their entrees to arrive, and the server brought out two heaping plates and set them on the tabletop. "Bill says the fries are really good," he said, primly laying a napkin on his lap, "So I have high hopes for these."

"They're _pretty_ good," Bill said, grabbing a handful of fries right from the serving platter. "They're better than a Wendy's when you've been driving through the desert for three days, anyway."

Eddie shuddered. Mike said to the whole table, "Did you know Derry has an Applebee's now?"

"No way," Ben said.

Nodding, Mike said, "It does. Like, ten minutes south of town, off the highway. I got food poisoning there once."

Eddie shuddered again, so violently that he knocked Richie's elbow off the table. "Why did we come here again?" he demanded. 

"For your birthday, Spagheds!" Richie reminded him. Eddie opened up his mouth to snap back with a mean comment, but then Richie's knee bumped into his under the table. With that little incindental touch, Eddie's brain went blissfully and utterly blank.

Meanwhile, the conversation flowed on. "Imagine if we were out in Derry right now?" Ben said, sounding half-wistful, half-glad to be anywhere but.

"I will not, thank you," Bev said.

Richie had, perhaps out of deference to Eddie, put some fries on his side salad plate, but now he was picking fries off the platter like everyone else. Normally, this behavior drove Eddie crazy—almost nobody washed their hands often or thoroughly enough, and also it was _rude_ —but he found he didn't mind it. Somehow it was okay among friends. He remembered doing this as kids, at pizza parlors and in the school cafeteria, splitting a huge order of fries without worrying about contamination. It felt familiar, and warm, like sliding, uninterrupted, into a memory.

Anyway, Eddie didn't think whining about germs and table manners was likely to impress Richie with his sophistication _or_ convince him to accept his proposal. So he kept his mouth shut on the matter. 

But he also used his fork to slide more fries onto Richie's plate for him. Just because.

The hamburger he ordered was fine—Richie made fun of him for getting it without a bun, but honestly, Eddie _preferred_ the taste of whole-grain—but the side salad was limp iceberg and shredded carrots. Nothing spectacular, but Eddie was hungry and it was adequate. Bill said, "Look, I didn't say the _entrees_ were good," when Bev complained that Ben's nachos were more grease than ground beef. "But it's better than nothing and I've never been to one without clean bathrooms. Which is harder to find on the road than you might think!"

"Please," Eddie said, frowning over the table at him, "Stop talking."

"I don't know about you," Stan said, "But the margaritas are kind of growing on me."

They were definitely growing on Eddie. He'd finished his second now, and he was starting to feel likeable. He was starting to feel downright _charming_ , if also a little flushed. But that could also be because of Richie. There was _so much_ of Richie; Eddie could feel his knee and the knob of his shoulder and his elbow, all of them brushing up against him. Between that and the faint smell of his deodorant—pine-scented, very appealing—Eddie was finding it hard to concentrate on anything else.

Patty flagged down the server and ordered another round of drinks. Just as she was about to depart, Eddie called, "Wait! Can you—would you take our picture?"

Everyone turned to stare at him. "Who are you," Stan said in disbelief, "And what have you done with Eddie Kaspbrak?"

"What's the big deal?" Eddie said, fishing his phone out of his pants pocket. Richie had to lean back out of his space, which Eddie disapproved of, but needs must. "I want a picture of us. Preferably one where I'm not fucking dying."

The server _whipped_ her head to look at Eddie, alarmed. Bev burst out laughing. "Oh, he's not dying _now_! He's fine now. Except for his personality."

Eddie bared his teeth at Bev. "Please," he said to the server, "Take the stupid picture."

The last photo of all of them had been taken when Eddie was in a hospital bed and Stan was heavily bandaged and Patty was still driving up from Atlanta, mystified by the whole fucking thing because Stan hadn't explained yet. This photo would be better. Granted, Applebee's wasn't the greatest location for a photo, but they were all sitting up and conscious. Eddie didn't have stitches in his fucking face, for that matter, or an oxygen canister either.

"Um," the server said, turning Eddie's iPhone over in her hands. "Can you all squish in?"

Everyone did as they were bade—Mike and Bill shuffled together, and Bev scooted back so she could actually be in frame. From behind Eddie, Stan sighed and pressed closer to him, reaching out for Patty's hand across the tabletop. Richie, meanwhile, leaned back, just a little, holding himself carefully _near_ Eddie without actually touching him. "This okay, Eds?" he asked.

It wasn't okay. It probably looked dumb, for one, and for two, Eddie didn't want to pose like two magnets faintly repulsing each other. He wanted to touch Richie. He _always_ wanted to, but he particularly wanted to in the photograph he was going to look at forever and the rest of time.

Maybe it was the margaritas, or maybe Eddie had just finally acquired some courage. Either way, he did something daring: he grabbed Richie's arm and yanked it around his own waist. Richie made a surprised noise, high in his throat, which Eddie ignored. Instead, he turned to face the camera, his temple aligned against Richie's cheek.

"Act like we like each other," he said.

The server, oblivious to this miniature drama, took several quick photos, then turned on the flash and took several more. She passed her phone to Ben, who passed it to Richie. Richie still had his hand around Eddie's waist, snug as a seatbelt. Eddie liked it there just fine. Instead of pulling away, he leaned even closer, craning over Richie's shoulder to look at the photos on the screen.

Richie shook his head. "I look dumb," he said.

No he didn't. He looked good, in his pink shirt with the collar open and the broad expanse of his shoulders on display. Admittedly, he looked shell-shocked—but Eddie supposed he'd sprung all that touching on him. In an effort to mend fences, Eddie scooted further away from Richie, but he only managed to yield an inch or two. Richie's arm was still around him. "You look fine," he told him. "Besides, it's better than the ones from the hospital. Patty's not even in those."

"Oh, Eddie," Patty said, sounding pleased. Eddie blushed, but he meant what he had said. Stan trusted her, and she knew about the clown, and besides—she was great. She was a terrifying driver but nobody, Eddie supposed, was perfect. He said none of this; Patty looked overwhelmed already, pink even under the warm glow of the inexplicable red overhead lighting. Stan covered both her hands in his own. "I just—you're all really wonderful!" she said.

"We're not," Bev said, "But you are, Patty, and we're so happy to know you."

There was now too much sentimentality happening. Eddie ducked his head under the pretense of saving the photos, and he didn't lift again until the drinks arrived. 

He drank the third margarita too fast, but in his defense, it was hot and stuffy in the restaurant. More people kept showing up until the place was packed, the din almost overpowering. Eddie hadn't been out on Blackout Wednesday in his entire life—he hadn't even know that it was a thing. Eddie had spent every night before Thanksgiving, like every Thanksgiving itself, in a state of suspended misery. Just slogging through, waiting diligently for Monday and school or work to start up again. How many holidays had he been missing out on during all those long years of his stupid, half-lived life?

He wondered, vaguely, what Myra was doing tonight, before deciding he didn't care.

"Hey," Richie said, nudging him. Eddie sat up —he'd been listing unconsciously into Richie's side—to find a pink margarita in Richie's hand. "I got you another," he said, passing it to Eddie. "It's strawberry. Happy birthday."

Eddie didn't bother explaining it was not his birthday. Instead he sipped the drink, considering. It tasted okay. "Thanks Richie."

Richie smiled at him. He seemed slightly subdued, had been ever since the photo. "Still worth it? Even though there's no karaoke?"

It took Eddie a long moment to work out what Richie meant. He meant the Applebee's, which had technically been Eddie's idea. While Eddie decided if it _was_ worth it, he sipped his margarita. It tasted like artificial strawberries, which always reminded Eddie of cough drops, but in a good way. At last, he nodded. "One hundred percent."

"Are you having a good birthday?" Mike asked. Eddie shook his head.

"It's not even my birthday! My birthday was Monday, and I worked late and I packed my suitcase!"

He had meant this purely as a statement of fact, but Mike looked sad. "That sounds _bleak_."

"It's fine," Eddie said. "It's _life_. Look, I got divorced, didn't I? And I can figure the rest out," he said, turning to Richie now, who raised his eyebrows but didn't interrupt. Good, because Eddie felt like he was really making sense, as if for the first time he was getting everything _right_. "I can figure out cooking, and fighting, what kind of flowers you like—"

"You good, Eddie?" Stan interrupted.

Eddie nodded vigorously. "I'm _fine._ "

"Just because it's called Blackout Wednesday doesn't mean that's the goal," Bill said. Eddie was half-sure Bill was teasing him, but on the other hand, he was starting to feel drunk. Or at least, he kept nodding his head, because he couldn't stop. It felt fucking _amazing_. Improbably, he had a neck and a spine that worked. The clown claw had missed his spine but damaged the nerves on the left side of his body. When he woke up post-surgery and the surgeon explained this to him in a grave voice, Eddie had said, "That's okay, Doc, I write right-handed." He'd really called him Doc, like he was Bugs Bunny or something. Richie had freaked out and stormed into the hallway and had a screaming match with Stan, but Eddie had just accepted it stoically and called the surgeon Doc.

Oh—Eddie _was_ drunk. What the fuck were in these margaritas? It had snuck up on him, but Eddie was definitely hammered right now. To his left, Stan said, "Might want to slow down. Mix in a water."

"Wasn't that Eddie's line in high school?" Ben said, as Bev cackled at Eddie's offended face. "Slow down, have a water?"

"You guys never drank water," Eddie said, resentful over it even though two decades had passed. "It's a miracle you weren't all dehydrated, constantly. Do you know how bad that is for your body?"

Richie turned to him, and Eddie was expecting mockery, or something witty at his expense, but Richie surprised him. "Need a water, Eds?" he said kindly.

Eddie blinked at him. "Please."

Laughing, Richie nodded. "Yeah, I'll get you one, my little birthday lightweight. Stay here, and don't fall over."

When Richie got up, he removed his arm from Eddie's waist. Although Eddie understood why he had done this, it pissed him off. He was bereft. And _cold_. Eddie lasted a full thirty seconds before deciding there was no reason to sit here missing Richie when Richie was just over there. Although he wobbled as he stood, he didn't fall. Ben obligingly got up out of his way and Eddie gracelessly slid out of the booth. "I'm going with Richie!" he announced.

"No one asked," Mike said, even though Eddie had already taken off, "But sure!"

It was not hard to find Richie. Richie was tall, _unfairly_ tall, and he was wearing his second-best flamingo shirt. Eddie could have found him in the dark, in a sewer, while being hunted by a monster. Because he _had_. He could definitely find him leaning up against the bar in that bright pink shirt.

"Richie!"

"Eds!" Richie said. He reached out and steadied Eddie by the arm, careful to grab him only on the right side. Richie was _so_ careful with him, without ever coddling. Eddie loved that about him. "God, you _are_ drunk, aren't you?"

Eddie nodded. He was flushed. His hair was no longer gelled to his scalp; he could feel a loose sweaty tendril of it falling against his face. "This is the first time I've had more than one drink since Derry!"

Wincing, Richie shook his head. "Oh, that's bleak."

It wasn't _bleak_. Eddie had had multiple major surgeries to repair the traumatic injury to his torso, and he'd been forbidden from drinking while he was recovering. Also, alcohol was probably a carcinogen; he was better off not consuming it regularly. People kept assuming Eddie's life was bleak when it was just a regular life. If he told Richie this, Richie would either laugh, quibble or, worst of all, look worried. So Eddie didn't tell him. Instead, he reached for Richie's watchband and hooked two fingers under it, knuckles pressing up against Richie's wrist.

"O-okay," Richie said, laughing nervously as he pried Eddie loose. "Easy there."

"I'm easy," Eddie said, offended.

Richie shook his head. "Oh, I'm not even gonna touch that one," he said. Then he took a deep breath and then exhaled quickly, like he was trying to get the act of breathing over with. "Eddie—fuck. I'm glad we're friends again, you know."

"Fucking amnesia!"

"No, I—well, yeah," he conceded. "Fucking amnesia."

That wasn't what Richie meant. Eddie was drunk and he had to swim through each of Richie's sentences to find the intention behind it, but he could feel Richie backing off his point. "When weren't we friends?" he demanded.

"You just seemed—you were pretty pissed," Richie said. It was too loud for this conversation, and Eddie had had three too many margaritas. He stepped another foot closer to Richie, angling his ear towards Richie's mouth. "After you almost died," Richie continued. "I wouldn't have blamed you if you'd lost our numbers."

Eddie turned, because he wanted to look at Richie's face. It was Richie's same face: short nose, big eyes, buck-teeth. Cute and fond and familiar, screwed up all nervously, but over entirely the wrong thing. Glaring at him, Eddie said, "I was mad at _you_."

Richie's face crumpled. "You were?"

This _idiot_. "You just left, dude," Eddie said. "You didn't even say goodbye! I saved your life and I had a hole in me, and you just disappeared?!"

The spark of anger that lived in Eddie's chest smoldered, threatening to burst into flame. If Richie had had feelings for him, then why the _fuck_ had Richie gone back to California without saying a word?

"I wanted to tell you this in New York, but I couldn't because I wanted us to just be normal again, or whatever. And we don't have to fight about it—not yet, sometime we should, but—Richie, you _left me_."

"Eds," Richie said. Eddie only knew he was saying his name because he knew what Richie's mouth looked like while he said it. His voice was tiny, and Eddie could hear the alcohol pounding through his bloodstream like the ocean in a seashell. "I'm _so_ sorry."

That had not been Eddie's point. Anger dissolving, he reached for Richie's wrist again, but this time he slipped his pinky finger through Richie's silver watchband like a promise. "I'm not," he said. "I saved your life. Probably the best thing I've ever done."

Richie flinched. Eddie, assuming he'd hurt him somehow, reached for Richie with his other hand. Instead, Richie shook him off. "Alright," he said firmly, "You're wasted, darling. You gotta go sit down, okay? If I aim you, will you walk a straight line?"

He put both his hands on Eddie's biceps and pointed him, physically, at the Losers' table. Eddie's drunk brain was busy appreciating how it felt to be held by Richie, but the rational part of him said, "I can do fucking anything. I can't be killed, Rich."

Behind him, Richie groaned. "You're killing _me,_ Eds," he said, but didn't elaborate. He gave Eddie a light push, and Eddie walked in a straight line over to their booth without tripping once.

"You're back!" Bev said. Eddie wasn't sure, because he was drunk, but he thought maybe Bev was drunk too. Either way, she threw her arms open and Eddie obediently hugged her. It was mildly awkward, hugging someone in the middle of sitting down, but it didn't faze Bev. She smelled good. Not like Richie, but something floral. Eddie liked hugging her. Eddie had no idea why he was so bad at hugging people, but when he was sober he was going to rectify that. Plus a million other things.

"I'm a Terminator," Eddie told her, "I cannot be killed."

"Yes but I'm pretty sure you can get alcohol poisoning like a regular human adult," Ben said skeptically. 

"No," Eddie said, "I don't think so. It's my _birthday_."

"Oh my God," Mike said, with enormous fondness. He reached out and patted Eddie's shoulder. Eddie leaned into the feeling, which also meant he leaned into Bev. But Bev was sturdy and she kept him from sliding under the table. "I missed drunk Eddie. Remember Halloween in tenth grade, when Richie convinced you to drink a six-pack by yourself?"

"That did _not_ happen," Eddie said sulkily, but it had. He'd thrown up in a creek that night. "Tell embarrassing stories about Bill, why don't you."

"Yeah, Mikey, why don't you," Bill said, sounding not fully sober himself. 

Eddie no longer knew who was drunk and who wasn't. And he wasn't sure he cared. It was Blackout Wednesday, after all. And he was with his friends, and nothing mattered, because the clown was dead and Eddie could not be killed and Richie was going to marry him. As soon as Eddie asked. And also Eddie should kiss him first.

Fuck. Eddie really, really wanted to kiss him.

He had no idea what to make of that desire. He just let it sit inside of him, a tangible ache that he could feel in the tips of his fingers and also, strangely, his mouth. Richie had a big, stupid mouth in the middle of his cute, stupid face, and maybe it was the four margaritas talking but Eddie wanted to kiss him, even more than usual.

If Richie liked him, and Eddie wanted to marry Richie, then there was no reason _not_ to kiss him. Maybe there had never been a reason not to. Except that Eddie was probably bad at kissing. Myra had said he kissed like a dead fish once in a settlement conference, in front of both their lawyers; to his amazement, this had hurt his feelings. The only person other than Myra he'd kissed this decade had been the Mets fan who'd laughed at him, although not about the kissing—or had he? It was hard to remember through the tequila. Oh God, Eddie was probably _terrible_ at kissing, and he wanted to impress Richie. But he had definitely fucked that part up, because he was drunk off margaritas and slumped in Bev's arms, instead of where he wanted to be, which was, as always, wherever Richie was.

Speaking of which—where the hell had Richie gone? Hadn't Richie gone to get him water? Why wasn't he back yet?

Eddie sat up, looking around the packed restaurant for Richie. Immediately, he wished he hadn't.

Richie was still at the bar, head ducked and angled in a way that made the razor edge of his jawline glint in the light. He did this when he was flirting—Eddie remembered from high school. He'd go up to the prettiest girls in school and weaponize the newfound planes of his face. It was the contrast of his eyelashes and his jaw, soft yet not, and sometimes the girls would roll their eyes but sometimes they'd hesitate a moment, wondering if they shouldn't give Trashmouth Tozier the benefit of the doubt.

Eddie had been jealous back in high school. He'd had no angles to speak of, had in fact been somehow both round _and_ bony, and he'd had to stand there like a fucking tree stump, burning with envy while Richie made eyes at girls who didn't notice he existed. But Richie wasn't flirting with some girl—Richie didn't flirt with girls anymore, it turned out—he was flirting with the tattooed bartender, the _male_ bartender. The handsome male bartender who was flirting _back_.

Eddie's left hand tightened into a fist until it hurt. Meanwhile, the bartender reached out and, with no apparent hang-ups or reservations, tapped Richie on the chest.

Eddie's stomach hurt so bad he kinda-sorta-not really felt like he'd been impaled again. It wasn't the liquor, although that wasn't helping. What the fuck was he _doing?_ Getting drunk and hoping he could kiss Richie, when Richie was busy batting his eyelashes at some anonymous tattooed stranger?

He stood up so fast he almost fell over. Ben, the soberest by far, said, "Eddie? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Going to get some air," he lied, then stumbled towards the exit.

He called an Uber from the parking lot. It was freezing but Eddie waited with his hands jammed in his pockets, not daring to go inside and see what Richie was doing. The night had grown oppressively cold; his fingers, especially in his left hand, ached from the chill. He knew he should warn the others he was leaving, but the idea of typing out a text was insurmountable. Instead, he waited in silence, his thoughts a drunken mess.

He couldn't kiss Richie drunk. That was the worst plan he'd ever had, bar none. Richie wouldn't know what it meant; _Eddie_ barely knew what it meant. All he knew was that there was something inside him that felt like a hemothorax when he thought about Richie kissing anyone other than him.

Eddie had had a hemothorax in the hospital, the first or second day after he woke up, post-surgery. Blood had leaked into his pleural cavity after surgery, compressing his lung until he couldn't draw breath. It had hurt like a motherfucker, and the nurses inserted a needle the size of a Louisville slugger into his chest to drain it. This had all happened before Richie left. After the procedure Richie had held Eddie's hand until the morphine kicked in; he hadn't thrown up once, even though he clearly really wanted to. Eddie remembered thinking, through the cotton candy-opiate haze, that Richie was the sweetest, best person in the world for sitting with him and not throwing up.

The door opened behind him. Eddie jumped, but it was just Patty. Her cheeks were still pink, but her voice was calm and level. "Eddie? Are you leaving?"

"Yeah. I think I'm going back to the hotel," Eddie said. He raised and lowered his hand, as if he were going to say something, but nothing came out. Instead, he shook his head. He was ready to pass out, preferably for a week. "Can you just tell the others?"

"Are you sure, Eddie?" Patty spoke very gently. With each word, a puff of white vapor hung in front of her face for a moment before dissipating. Eddie liked her so much, and he was so glad Stan had married her, and he had acted like a complete _tool_ in front of her. "I could wait with you, at least."

"No," he said immediately, "That's okay. Besides, uh—" He squinted at his phone. "Caroline will be here in three minutes. Please. Just. Don't worry about me."

Patty gave him a wry look, and Eddie, drunk though he was, knew then that Patty worried about every single one of them.

"Alright, Eddie," she said. "I'll see you tomorrow at Thanksgiving, then. Have a good night."

"Good night, Patty," Eddie called, and she went back inside and left him standing on the curb, alone and cold.  


+++

The first thing he did upon shutting his hotel room door was Venmo Stan a hundred dollars. The stupid Applebee's menu hadn't listed the drink prices anywhere, and he had no idea what the liquor tax was in Georgia, but he was too wiped to do math. If that was excessive, Stan could apply it to the cost of the Thanksgiving dinner; Eddie was beyond caring. Exhausted, he threw himself at the bed.

Fuck. His _face_ was touching the hotel coverlet. The germs. Groaning, he stood up and stumbled into the bathroom to scrub his skin raw.

As he clumsily dried his face, his phone vibrated to alert him of another message in the group chat with Melissa and Devon. Melissa had written, _Eddie are you at an Applebee's??_ Because Eddie had sent her the stupid group picture, the one with Richie's arm around him. Fuck—when had he done that? In the Uber? He frantically checked to see if he'd sent any other messages, but he hadn't. Not that he could see anyway.

Eddie painstakingly typed out his response. _Yes. Sorry fr the late texts._ Great, he was going to have to apologize to Melissa and Devon on Monday. And then a wave of drunken melancholy nearly bowled him over, because it was going to be _Monday_ and he was going to have to go home. Without Richie.

This was stupid. He was drunk, and he wasn't thinking right. Eddie glared at himself meaningfully in the bathroom mirror. His reflection wobbled, so he pressed his knuckles against the cold marble of the sink to steady himself. "Get your shit together, Eddie," he said sternly.

His reflection, naturally, just glared back at him.

Besides, all his good intentions vanished when his phone buzzed, again. Richie, of course. His message was brief and devastating: _Where'd you go Eds? miss you._

Wasted though he was, Eddie stared down at the text and the missing, ambiguous subject of its second sentence until the screen went dark. 

Because he was evidently a masochist, he called Richie back.

Richie picked up at once. "Where the hell are you? I'm freezing my nuts off, looking for you."

He must have been outside. His teeth were actually chattering; Eddie felt guilty as well as drunk and stupid and horny. "I felt sick. I told Patty."

"Fucking lightweight," Richie said without rancor. "Did you go back to the hotel? Aww, Eddie I would have gone with you. We could have got room service sent up."

Eddie wasn't mad about the bartender. Richie was allowed to do whatever he liked, because Eddie had no claim to him. The person he was mad at was himself. _He_ had gotten drunk and failed to propose to Richie or even tell Richie that maybe he should kiss Eddie and only Eddie. Richie was just an innocent bystander.

"You're not—" Richie broke off. His teeth were still chattering. Eddie wanted so much he couldn't even articulate what it was he wanted. Everything. Richie. Unfortunately those felt like the same thing. "Eddie, are you still mad at me?"

Yeah, he was, but it didn't seem to matter. Richie was in an Applebee's parking lot and Eddie was lying on his hotel bed, and they were talking on the phone again, the way they always were. Maybe that was all Eddie would ever get to have: Richie's tinny voice relayed through a speaker, and a long phone bill.

"Richie," Eddie said, "You know I—"

"Know what?" Richie said, when Eddie didn't continue. "Eddie, you still there?"

He shook his head. "Nothing. I'm wasted. I'm going to sleep."

"Alright, Eds," Richie said. "Drink some water, okay? Got a big day tomorrow."

"Okay," Eddie mumbled. His eyelids were too heavy to keep open. "I love you, goodnight."

Richie's breath caught, but when he spoke he sounded the same as always. "Love you too, Eds. Sleep tight, okay?"

But Eddie had already passed out on top of the coverlet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings: mentions of prior abusive marriages; eddie’s complicated feelings about disability; as the chapter title no doubt makes clear, alcohol, and eddie in particular drinks to excess; upsetting medical details (skip the paragraph that begins “eddie had had a hemothorax” if you’re squeamish); vomiting mention; a few references to eddie’s imminent sexuality crisis; the good name of Applebee's is slandered.
> 
> relatedly, the Applebee’s i grew up near had Tuesday night karaoke but i have no idea if that’s commonplace. truly no experience like eating a wedge salad while someone sings alicia keys nearby.


	4. Thanksgiving

On Thanksgiving morning, Eddie threw up in the shower. Then he made himself the world's crappiest cup of coffee in the tiny hotel room coffeemaker and chugged it. He was so hungover he could feel his pulse in the tiny capillaries behind his eyes. Applebee's margaritas should be a controlled substance, he thought feverishly, and that was his _only_ thought on the matter. Everything else was getting repressed until the end of time.

After he'd showered, again, and gulped an Excedrin, he got in the rental car with Bev and Ben. Neither of them said anything about his disappearing act the night before, but Bev, at least, had an excuse: she looked as miserable as Eddie felt. Ben, by contrast, looked sprightly. "Smug bastard," Eddie said. Ben said nothing, only smiled beatifically as he drove. Bev and Eddie, meanwhile, huddled in the backseat, wincing every time the car hit a bump.

It was raining again, a fine gray curtain of mist instead of raindrops that made everything frizzy. Ben pulled into the driveway and the three of them piled out. Eddie's hair rebelled instantly, escaping the gel he'd haphazardly applied. Of course this was when he spotted Richie, up on the porch, bundled into a UGA sweater, a lit cigarette between his fingers.

"You guys look like shit," he called, voice gravelly. "Can't anybody hold their liquor anymore?"

Bev stomped up to the porch. "Give," she said; Richie, obligingly, took a last drag and handed the cigarette over. "You had like, two drinks, Rich, I don't want to hear it."

Richie looked at Eddie. His gaze seemed to burn Eddie's skin. "You feeling okay, Eds?" he asked, a note of solicitousness in his voice that Eddie was wildly unprepared for.

"Uhhhh," Eddie said.

"Richie," Bev insisted, "What happened with the bartender, when I went to the bathroom he was all over you—"

Eddie fled. It was unsettling to stride into someone else's home without knocking, but it felt right—both because it felt natural, and because Eddie couldn't stand to be on the porch one moment longer. While he and Ben wiped their feet, a warbled "Come in, everyone!" came from upstairs in Patty's voice; Patty herself came down seconds later, in a brown sweatshirt with a turkey face on it. When she pulled Eddie into a hug, the turkey's sewn-on wattle jiggled. "Come on in, there's pancakes on the stove."

Eddie let himself be shepherded into the kitchen. But not fast enough—as he passed the threshold Bev's voice floated after him, saying, "He just wanted your autograph? Was that all or did you—"

There were four people in the kitchen—Patty, Ben, Mike and Stan—and they all looked up when Eddie said, much louder than he had intended to, _"Fuck me."_

Four sets of eyes blinked at him. Eddie, mortified, blushed so hard he was surprised his hair didn't ignite. "Sorry. Wasn't—wasn't directed at you guys."

Even as everyone stared at him, his brain was revisiting Richie and the bartender, the cut of Richie's jaw and the burning in his stomach. He didn't even feel better that the bartender had apparently just wanted Richie's autograph. If anything, he was offended on Richie's behalf.

Stan, stationed at the stove flipping pancakes, gave him a hard look. Eddie wanted real coffee, slathered in sugar and cream so it wouldn't taste like coffee; failing that, he wanted to crawl into a hole and die. But he also didn't want to get one inch closer to Stan, who was staring daggers at him, as if he might slice Eddie to ribbons.

Clearly luck was not on Eddie's side today, because Stan put his coffee mug down and handed the spatula to Patty. "Eddie," he said firmly, "Come with me."

Eddie donned the shoes he'd just taken off and followed Stan out the front door. Bev and Richie were still smoking, elbows on the porch railing, but they both popped up like prairie dogs when Eddie and Stan traipsed past. "What are you two doing?" Richie called after them.

Eddie let Stan answer. "Taking a walk. Back in a little bit."

"Disgusting!" Bev yelled, at the same time that Richie said, "Have fun!"

The sidewalks of Stan and Patty's neighborhood were wide and well-paved, with neatly trimmed lawns on both sides. Stan said hello in passing to a neighbor who'd come to fetch the newspaper, but other than that he didn't speak until they'd gone several blocks. At last, he said, "So. I don't even know where to start with you."

Eddie winced, but he set his jaw, too. "Don't go easy on me, Stan. No bullshit."

He and Stan had made a pact together, after Derry. They had spent a weird, nebulous week hanging out in the hospital—Eddie was recuperating and Stan was technically on the lam, because he'd been hospitalized himself back in Georgia and had left both the hospital and Patty to join them in Maine. By the time he'd arrived, the clown was dead and Eddie was in surgery, but nobody had held that against him. But the others treated him like he was breakable. They spoke to him in the same studied, effusively gentle tone Eddie had grown to hate.

Stan had been keeping him company the afternoon Richie disappeared. After hours of everyone doggedly pretending Richie would be back any moment, Eddie couldn't bear it any more. He turned to Stan and said, "Please don't bullshit me here, Stan. Just tell me—did he leave?" Stan said nothing—he'd been reading an illustrated guide to the birds of the eastern United States to pass the time, but he shut the hardback and looked Eddie in the eye. "I won't bullshit you if you won't bullshit me," he said. "Does everyone hate me for not being here?"

"No," Eddie said at once, "Nobody hates you. They're just scared if they mention it you'll try to kill yourself again."

Stan laughed like he'd been kicked in the stomach, like the sound had been forced out of him. "Okay," he said, and his hands trembled against the glossy cover of his birdwatching book. "Well, I'm not going to. You can tell them that. But yes, Eddie. Richie left."

"Fine with me," Stan said, here and now on the sidewalk on the morning of Thanksgiving. He pulled up short, forcing Eddie to stop too. Stan drew himself up to his full height and once again looked Eddie square in the eye. "Do you have feelings for Richie?"

"What?!" Eddie yelped.

Stan rolled his eyes so hard it could no doubt be seen from space. "Seriously, Eddie? You got drunk and flirted with him all night, and then you freaked out and disappeared. And what's this Bev's been saying about you proposing to him?"

"I'm not," Eddie said. He couldn't propose to Richie—yet. He needed to figure out what the fuck his feelings and his dick were doing, because both were going haywire. But it was only Thursday; his flight wasn't until Sunday morning. He had three more days to figure it out.

Relief broke over Stan's face. "Well. That's good, anyway."

"Would it be so bad, though?" Eddie demanded. "If I was?"

Instead of answering, Stan started walking again. Eddie followed suit—it was too cold to stand around in the frigid drizzle. "I think you know the answer to that question, because no, you shouldn't marry someone you're not in a relationship with," Stan said. He had adopted that slightly condescending tone that Eddie remembered so well from adolescence, when Stan would forbid the rest of them to do something stupid, like backflipping into the quarry. "I'm not saying I don't understand the impulse, especially after Derry—you clearly have a crush, there's history between the two of you, you experienced something terrible together—but come _on,_ Eddie. Marriage?"

"It's not a _crush_ ," Eddie said, his pride wounded. "Stan, I'm forty-one fucking years old."

"Then what is it?"

"It's—" Eddie couldn't find the words. "It's Richie."

Shaking his head, Stan looked at him pityingly. "That's not an answer, Eddie."

Every single time in childhood Stan had said, _Don't do that,_ he'd been right, but this was different. Stan didn't _get it_. Nobody got it. Maybe Eddie didn't even understand it, not fully, but he knew with a bone-deep certainty that he could make Richie happy. He could take care of Richie, which was, for some reason, his only goal in life. So what if that was weird—Eddie was weird. He knew he was. And he couldn't change that and he couldn't fix himself, but he could do this for Richie.

As they walked, the bare trees dripped huge raindrops that splattered onto the collar of Eddie's coat. "Stan," he said, their footsteps echoing on the wet pavement, "How did you know you wanted to marry Patty?"

Squinting at him underneath the hood of his coat, Stan's expression nonetheless softened at Patty's name. "We dated for a while. And I liked her more and more every day until I loved her, and then I decided I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her."

"What if I want to spend the rest of my life with Richie?"

Stan sighed. "Eddie."

"He's my favorite person, Stan."

"That's not enough," Stan said. "Don't you think Richie wants to be loved? And presumably have sex? I mean, are you even attracted to men?"

Eddie had no fucking idea. How did somebody _know_ if they were attracted to men. Was there a test? He'd take it right now. He was probably attracted to _Richie_ , and also to guys who looked like Richie. But maybe Richie was an outlier; in that case, the dataset was unreliable. Besides, he couldn't waste time kissing other men to figure out if Richie was part of a larger pattern. If Eddie went back to New York and tried to figure out his sexuality, surely someone would swoop in and steal Richie away. The gay men of Los Angeles would be stupid not to.

The very thought of Richie, hand in hand with some anonymous dude from L.A., made cold sweat prickle down the nape of Eddie's neck. "Stan," he said shortly, "No offense, but I don't want to have this conversation with you."

"Okay," Stan said. "I understand that. But is it _possible_ that you've just gotten divorced, your life looks totally different and now you're having very intense feelings about your one remaining single friend who also went through a life-altering traumatic experience?"

Eddie had gotten divorced months ago, and he liked his new life just fine. And Eddie wasn't doing this for himself—he was doing it for Richie. All Eddie wanted was to buy Richie a winter coat, and make sure he was happy, and maybe also kiss him sometimes. Why was that so wrong?

"That's not it _at all_ ," he said. "Look, I know it's—unusual. But I want to spend the rest of my life with him. I married someone I didn't even like, Stan, but I'm crazy about Richie. And I think I could help him."

"You understand that asking someone to marry you so you can teach them how to be a grown-up is deeply insulting, right," Stan said, frowning.

"I don't think he's incompetent." So what if he didn't cook? Eddie would learn to cook for the both of them. "But that's what a marriage is, right? You cook so Patty doesn't have to. You make her tea. You take care of her. That's what I want to do for Richie, so what's wrong with that?"

Again, Stan stopped. "What's wrong with that, Eddie," he said in frustration, "Is that Richie is in love with you."

Eddie's jaw hit the pavement. "He— _what?"_

"Eddie, come on," Stan said. Behind his glasses, Stan's eyebrows seemed to suggest that Eddie was a complete fucking idiot, but Eddie genuinely hadn't known. Nobody told him _anything_.

"I knew he liked me," Eddie said, perplexed. Richie _loved_ him? "But Stan—"

"Trust me, Eddie. He is," Stan said firmly. "Are you in love with him?"

"Well. No," Eddie said. Shock was still flooding his nervous system; he couldn't believe it. Richie liking him—sure. Richie had always had bad taste, and Eddie had been a constant during Richie's formative years; it made sense that Richie imprinted on him early. But _love_? "But... maybe I could be?"

Stan took the heel of his hand and pressed it into his browbone. "Eddie, please think about what you're saying," he said urgently. "You can't propose to him and then tell him you don't love him but you're really going to _try_. That's not _fair_ , Eddie. He deserves more than that. He deserves someone who loves him back."

"But I—" Eddie said, but he trailed off, his argument dying off like a mosquito whine at the end.

Didn't you get points for wanting to be in love with someone?

Eddie didn't love Richie, but he had done everything else on Stan's list. He liked Richie more every day; he wanted to be with him all the time. Technically, they hadn't dated, but they had gone to the Statue of Liberty together. In high school they'd cut all those gym classes and hid behind the cafeteria, sitting on the picnic tables, ankles intertwined. They'd spent every moment together when they were young, riding bikes or lazing by the quarry, Eddie dozing in the sun while Richie listed all the things they could do once they finally got out of Derry for good. Didn't _any_ of that count?

But he knew that it did not. Intentions never counted. You did things or you didn't, and at the end of the day you counted up the runs and went home. Eddie knew from experience what it was like to wait patiently for love that never came. Sonia Kaspbrak hadn't taught him much, but she had shown him, in excruciating detail, how bitter it was to hope and be disappointed.

He could never do that to Richie.

"Fuck," Eddie said succinctly.

Stan sighed. "Yeah," he said.

" _Fuck,_ " Eddie said, as loudly as he could without shouting.

Stan nodded and put his hands into the pockets of his coat. "If you don't love him, then—Eddie," he said, as delicately as possible, "You need to back off."

Eddie miserably raised his head. "Okay."

They walked back the way they came, Eddie feeling so defeated he could barely pick his feet up. When they arrived at the house, the porch was empty; the rain must have chased Bev and Richie inside. Eddie dawdled as he and Stan shed their damp coats and muddy shoes, unwilling to go into the warm kitchen where he could hear Richie talking, laughing with the others. How the fuck was he meant to face Richie now?

While Eddie was rehanging his coat, again, Mike appeared in the kitchen doorway. "Oh, hey guys," he said. Scratching the back of his neck under the collar of his fisherman's sweater, he gave Eddie a careful once-over, but blessedly didn't comment. "Bill's upstairs. Either he's still sleeping or he's forgotten he's supposed to help with the pies. I was just going to check on him, unless—?"

Eddie knew an out when he saw one. "You stay, I'll go."

The master bedroom was at one end of the upstairs hall, and the guest room and the office that Richie were staying in flanked the other end. Between them sat a Juliet balcony that overlooked the backyard; Eddie bypassed it in favor of knocking on the guest room door.

"Come in," Bill called. He was not sleeping. He was in fact sitting on the edge of the guest bed, ankles crossed, writing in a notebook. He looked up when Eddie stepped on a squeaky floorboard. "Hey," he said, mouth pulling down into a frown. "Are you okay? You look terrible."

Eddie shrugged. On the dresser was a framed photo of Stan and Patty, younger and fresh-faced; he picked it up and peered at it. "Hungover. Also, turns out I don't know how to be a person."

Laughing ruefully, Bill shook his head. "Me too," he said, "The hangover _and_ the not knowing how to be a person. You know I haven't done anything by myself in like, fifteen years? I had to buy a new pair of shoes in Texas and I didn't know what size I wear."

"Did you figure it out?"

He shut the notebook and put it aside. Eddie, drawn in, came and joined him on the edge of the bed, eager for the denouement. Bill, head hanging slightly, said in a low voice, "It was _humiliating._ It's written on the bottom of your shoe. Mike showed me."

Despite himself, Eddie cracked up. Bill laughed too, hard enough that he laid down and covered his face in his hands.

Eddie did so too. The bed was made, otherwise he wouldn't have dared, but it was nice—both of them laughing til their stomachs hurt at the image of Bill Denborough, Hollywood darling and best-selling author, inspecting the sole of his shoe to find out what size his feet were.

After a while, Eddie sobered. He didn't get up, though, and Bill didn't either. They just stared up at the expanse of blank ceiling and listened to the rain. The room was neat, because Bill and Mike were both neat. There were two books on the nightstand, Mike's reading glasses perched on top. Two halves, Eddie thought, every cell in his body aching with longing.

Richie was in love. With _him_. Eddie rolled the idea around his head, trying different emphases, attempting to make it compute. Richie was in love with him, and Eddie had been idiotically trying to marry him until about twelve minutes ago. Why hadn't Richie said anything? Why had he just gone back to California and accepted all of Eddie's calls, for months? What was so great about Eddie, anyway, that Richie had decided to feel any particular way about _him?_

Eddie had never been good at being sad. His therapist said he wasn't comfortable feeling sad or indeed feeling any of his emotions, which she'd related back to his mother because she related _everything_ back to his mother. Being angry was easier than being sad; anger was simple and straight-forward and not embarrassing. But Eddie didn't have the energy to be angry just now. His stupid heart hurt, which was doubly rude of it. If it would just come online and love Richie, all of his problems would be solved.

"Bill? Is everyone worried about me?" he asked.

"I wouldn't say worried," Bill said, but he stuttered on the word _worried_ , which meant he was overthinking it. Eddie scrunched his eyes shut. "Don't worry," Bill continued, "Mike's not going to come drug you or anything. Just... you seem like you're dealing with a lot right now."

Richie loved him, and Eddie was trying to force himself to love Richie and it wasn't fucking working. So, yeah, he guessed he was going through a lot. Plus he had a titanic urge to kiss Richie that he couldn't _begin_ to process, lest he explode. Top it all off with an incredible hangover and a terrible night's sleep, and Eddie was more anxiety soup than person.

Searching for a delicate way to phrase his next question, Eddie found nothing and was forced to be blunt. "Bill, don't answer if this is too personal. But you—you loved your wife, right?"

Bill considered this. He laced his hands on his stomach and buried his teeth in his lower lip. "Yeah," he said. "I did. But just because you love someone doesn't mean it works out."

"But you were in love with her once, right? When you married her it was because you loved her?"

"Yes, I loved her." He rolled over so that he could meet Eddie's gaze. "Why'd you marry your wife, Eddie?"

Shrugging, Eddie said, "We'd been together five years. It felt embarrassing to be calling her my girlfriend still."

"That's the reason?"

"Yeah." Eddie reflected on the elaborate planning he'd done this week regarding Richie and winced. "Is that better or worse than asking someone to marry you for tax benefits?"

Bill said, nose wrinkled, "Well, neither is great, Eddie."

That hurt. It hurt to compare his clusterfuck of a first marriage to his—what noun went in this blank?—whatever it was that he had with Richie. "What if you don't love someone, but they're important to you, and you want to take care of them?"

"If you want something to take care of, maybe just... buy a plant."

Ever since Eddie's almost-death, Bill had been extra generous with him. Bill's verbal tirade in Neibolt may have inspired Eddie's suicidal bravery in the cavern, which had saved Mike _and_ Richie's lives, but Eddie had nearly lost his own. Bill, ever the protagonist, had condemned himself to feeling responsible for this until the end of time. Eddie found this rather egotistical, but he didn't mind it. He liked that Bill sided with him automatically—as a kid he'd always wanted Bill's attention, his favor. And unlike his mother or Myra, Bill didn't lord this concern over Eddie. He was just nicer to Eddie than he deserved.

If even _Bill_ couldn't feign enthusiasm for the stupid marry-Richie plan, then it must be a terrible plan. Eddie had known it was before he asked, but Bill's disapproval was the final nail in the coffin.

He wasn't going to ask Richie to marry him. He saw that now. He would back the fuck off, and Richie would go back to California, _again_ , and Eddie would return to New York without even kissing him. Which was fine. Eddie liked New York. He liked being single. Richie would go on without him and he'd be perfectly happy without Eddie's pathetic attempts to love him.

Bill and Mike were so lucky. Bev and Ben, too. And Stan, who had not wasted his twenty-seven years but found Patty and built a life with her. In time, Richie would get over the dregs of his unrequited love for Eddie and he'd find someone good for him. Someone worthy of him, someone who would love him as he deserved. Eddie wanted to be that person, but what he wanted really didn't come into the equation at all.

But he was glad for Bill and Mike. For all of his friends. "Bill?" Eddie said. "You seem really happy."

"I am," Bill said. He smiled to himself; Eddie saw it from the corner of his eye. "It's scary, though."

"Good scary?"

Laughing, Bill said, "The best kind of scary."

That was nice. Bill deserved that. Mike deserved it too. It was good that some people got what they deserved.

For a moment, Eddie allowed his exhaustion to overwhelm him and his eyelids to droop, but then he heard footsteps on the stairs. Assuming it was Stan come to drag them both downstairs to help, he bolted upright. "Oh shit," he said, "I was supposed to remind you—Bill, the pies."

But it wasn't Stan. It was Mike, bearing aloft two steaming mugs of coffee as he let himself into the room. "Don't worry about the pies," he said reassuringly, "Stan's still making pancakes." He gestured with the mugs. "Brought you guys some coffee. What are you doing?"

Eddie blinked at him in confusion. What the fuck? Why was Mike being _nice_ to him?

"Pondering our faults," Bill said.

"But Bill doesn't have any faults," Mike said fondly. 

Bill laughed. "Bill has lots of faults."

They were clearly having a moment—Eddie, feeling awkward as hell, was about to slide off the bed and hide elsewhere—but then Mike's smile went softer, smaller but filled with affection. He put the two mugs of coffee on the dresser, next to the photo of Stan and Patty from twenty years ago. "That bed big enough for three?"

Bill looked at Eddie; Eddie nodded, and Mike joined them, slotting himself between Eddie and Bill. There was a lot of Mike, and when he slung an arm around each of them, their combined bodies occupied the entire mattress. "This is cozy," Mike said, mussing the comforter as he settled in comfortably. "I can see why you're up here playing hooky instead of helping."

"We're not _playing hooky_ ," Eddie said.

"Eddie," Bill said, "He's joking."

And he was. Mike's smile was not mocking or teasing or complicatedly passive-aggressive; it was just a smile. Eddie, reluctantly, lowered his defenses slightly. It was... nice. Mike was ripped as hell under his soft fisherman's sweater, yet surprisingly comfortable. The rain pattering on the roof was rhythmic, almost musical. And with Mike and Bill curled up next to him, the Richie-shaped pain in his chest was blunted enough that Eddie could, temporarily, forget about it.

As he tried to remember how to relax, Eddie said, "What about the pies?"

"The pies'll keep," Mike promised. "Ten-minute power nap. It's a hangover cure."

When you put it like that, Eddie decided. On Mike's other side, Bill's eyes were already shut. Eddie _was_ very tired, and Mike's sweater smelled the faintest bit like hay, a smell Eddie associated with his grandparents' farm and all the happiest parts of childhood. A ten minute nap and then a hot cup of coffee sounded like just the thing for his hangover and his stupid, bruised heart.

He settled into Mike's side, but he could not stop himself from warning, "We're ruining our sleep cycles, you know."

"Eddie," Bill said, voice already half-fogged with sleep, "Shut the fuck up and nap."

+++

The problem with backing off—apart from the fact that Eddie did not want to, if anything, being told that Richie loved him made him want Richie more—was that the house just wasn't that big. True, it wasn't _small_ , but there was only so much space. Everywhere he went there was Richie: his laugh, his outrageous stories, the pine scent of his deodorant, his eyes tracking Eddie from room to room.

Eddie was sorely tempted, but he had given Stan his word, and he was doing his best to stick to it. When he, Mike and Bill stumbled downstairs after their much-longer-than-ten-minute nap, he stationed himself at the opposite end of the kitchen from Richie. After lunch, Bev and Mike convinced Richie to play poker; Eddie instead joined Patty and Ben around the puzzle they were working on. When Richie sat on the sofa, Eddie decamped for the armchair. And when Stan asked, "Can I get someone to come lay the table," Eddie almost broke his neck sprinting to the kitchen.

"Smooth," Stan said dryly. Eddie, right arm full of delicate crockery, flipped him off as best he could with his left hand.

At precisely six-thirty, they all sat down at the dining room table. Eddie took the chair between Patty and Bev, as far from Richie as possible. Richie said nothing—or if he did, Eddie didn't hear him from his end of the table. Instead, he busied himself spreading his napkin on his lap.

While Patty went around the table, pouring wine, Stan carried the enormous, golden-brown turkey to the table. Everyone made appreciative noises; Stan, cheeks heating, waved them off. "It's just a turkey," he said. But it wasn't just a turkey—besides the bird, there were rolls shaped like pumpkins, fresh green beans, two kinds of stuffing, roasted brussels sprouts, tureens of gravy, and a gleaming pink salmon. Mike and Bill had provided tabbouleh; Ben made green bean casserole with crispy fried onions on top. The mountain of mashed potatoes Eddie and Bev had prepared sat in the middle of the table, gently wafting steam. And in the kitchen were two pies and an apple cake, just waiting to be served.

Stan waved his hands. "No need to stand on ceremony," he said, "Eat."

And then they did. There was no comparing this feast with the Thanksgivings he had shared with Myra. First of all, the food looked incredible. Everyone was laughing, talking, passing plates back and forth and then asking for the dishes back again. "Which stuffing is which?" Mike said, and Stan, trying to carve the turkey and pass the rolls at the same time, said, "I truly don't know."

"This one was cooked inside the bird, this one wasn’t," Patty said helpfully, offering Bill the correct serving dish.

It was warm, and convivial, and slightly too crowded around the table. Despite using Stan and Patty's finest china and a lace tablecloth that made Eddie terrified of gravy spills, no one had gotten dressed up for dinner. Everyone was in their sweats and pajamas bottoms, except for Patty—she was still wearing the preposterous sweater with the turkey on it. Patty also seemed delighted to be hostessing a large dinner for all of her husband's friends; she was beaming from ear-to-ear. Even when Bill immediately spilled red wine on the table cloth, she merely said, "No worries, Bill, it's machine-washable."

"Oh thank God," Bill said guiltily.

Myra would have lost her shit if someone had spilled wine on their good tablecloth. Not that they usually had guests on Thanksgiving, or indeed any holiday—Myra said they only needed each other's company, but in reality they had few friends. Sometimes her sister came and criticized Myra's cooking while Eddie choked down his dry turkey. While it wasn't fun, it was better than his childhood Thanksgivings; those meals alternated between icy silence and screaming. Eddie vastly preferred Myra and her sister's petty bickering.

"Eddie," Ben said, a welcome intruder into Eddie's bleak memories, "You want some turkey?"

Eddie thought about it and decided that, no. He didn't want turkey. "Actually," he said, "Can you pass the salmon?"

As the fish made its way, hand-over-hand, from Richie to Eddie, Bev said, "Hey. Speaking of the salmon, Trashmouth— _how_ did you get away with not cooking."

At these words, a gleam appeared in Richie’s eye. "Oh, wait, you didn't see what I made? Hold on." Smirking broadly, Richie rose from his chair and ran to the kitchen. There was a general mood of confusion from everyone except Stan, who rolled his eyes. Richie reappeared with a saucer and a ribbed aluminum can. As everyone watched, he popped the tab. "Ta-da," he said with a flourish. "Cranberries, made with my old family recipe."

Stan said his feelings for Richie were a crush. Eddie couldn't remember ever having a crush before—at the age when the others were mooning over Bev or famous actresses, Eddie was kicking Richie in the face in the hammock. In high school, when people asked who he had a crush on Eddie would either make something up or just repeat Richie's answer. But if this was a crush, no _wonder_ all his friends had been pubescent nightmares; Eddie felt unhinged, watching silently as Richie waved his big hands around the cranberry sauce like he'd done a magic trick.

"Canned cranberries," Mike said skeptically.

Nodding with mock solemnity, Richie sat down again and, using his butter knife, tipped the wobbly jelly onto the saucer. It jiggled slightly as he set it down. "Canned cranberries are the only kind worth eating."

Bev, deeply unimpressed, turned to Stan. "I cannot _believe_ you made him a salmon."

"Hey!" Richie said. "It's my Thanksgiving too. And I'm thankful for the salmon."

In Richie's defense, the salmon smelled heavenly—way better than the turkey, which, despite Stan's careful preparation, was still a dry, gross bird. "It looks delicious, Stan," Eddie said, serving himself. "Actually, everything looks delicious."

"Well," Stan said. He looked pleased, sitting at the head of the table in what seemed to be the same UGA sweater Richie had been wearing that morning. "Thank you to all of you for chipping in."

"I'm also thankful for Stan for having such a crazy fuck-off big home so that he could host all of us," Richie added, as he dumped a heaping spoonful of every single dish onto his plate.

Bill groaned. "We are not going around the table."

"Oh, no, really?" said Patty. "That's my favorite thing!"

Privately, Eddie thought it was deeply hokey to go around and name what you were grateful for, but Patty's enthusiasm was so sweet and unfeigned it would have been impossible to refuse. Bill must have felt similarly, because he slumped in resignation. Mike, patting him on the shoulder, said encouragingly, "You heard the lady, Bill. What are you thankful for?"

"I'm thankful for divorce lawyers."

"Hear, hear," Eddie chimed in.

"That's depressing, both of you," Bev said. She wagged her butter knife threateningly. "Something nice, please."

Although he made a face, Bill did take a moment to think the question over. "I'm thankful for our road trip and all the inspiration it provided."

"Me too," Mike said. That didn't count, according to Bev, he couldn't _repeat_ an answer, to which Patty agreed. Mike laughed and held his hands up in surrender. "Alright, alright. I'm thankful for the time we spent in Joshua Tree. We watched the sun come up together, it was indescribably beautiful. Also, everything we ate in New Orleans."

They skipped Richie, because he'd already gone. Stan, sitting at Richie's right, was next. "I am thankful that the work schedules of eight adults in five different cities all lined up just right so that you could all be here."

"I'm thankful for all the wonderful food," Ben said, squeezing Bev's hand in his, "Especially the mashed potatoes."

"For Ben teaching me how to make mashed potatoes," Bev said, smiling softly at him. "And Eddie helped, of course."

Then everyone turned and looked at Eddie. Even though he had known that he'd be up eventually, Eddie suddenly had no idea what to say. Lots of good things had happened this year—including his divorce, which had in fact been one of the best things to ever happen to him—but Eddie's one-track mind was stuck on Richie. Richie was here, alive and whole and in love with him, and Eddie didn't return his feelings and that _sucked_.

Obviously he couldn't say that. It wasn't very grateful, for one, and for two, if Eddie started whining about Richie, he was pretty sure Stan would drown him in the gravy boat.

"Um," Eddie said. He cleared his throat. "I guess I'm thankful that I didn't die. I don't think I got much right in my first forty years. But maybe I'll have better luck in my next forty."

He had very sincerely meant it, but the answering silence was deafening. Which meant that everyone felt sorry for him and didn't know what to say. Which—great. Face flaming, Eddie rushed to say, "Patty?"

For a moment, Patty considered Eddie, her expression kind. Then she turned to the rest of the table. "Well. I'm thankful for all of you," she said. "What happened to you was terrible. I know that." Something tightened painfully around Eddie's lungs and he stared resolutely down at his lap. He was not alone—there was a shuffling sound as the others looked away or fidgeted in their chairs. Over a year later, they rarely spoke of Derry or what they'd gone through there. But Patty soldiered on, saying, "And I know that I'll never truly understand what you went through. But I'm so glad that you're not alone, that you found each other again. And I really do think of you all as our family."

The table was too large for Stan to reach Patty, but he put his hand out anyway. "Patty," he said; as he moved, the light caught briefly on the crescent of scars still visible on his face. Patty nodded. She extended her hand across the table too, and although their outstretched hands did not meet, something wordless and intimate passed between them anyway. For a moment, they existed in their own little world, the only two people on earth.

Into this moment of quiet beauty, Richie said loudly, "I know I went twice already, but I'm also very thankful for Patty choosing to slum it with Stan."

Ben giggled. Then he slapped a hand over his mouth like he'd done something shocking, which made everyone else laugh too. Tension broken, Patty sat back in her chair. "Beep beep, Richie."

Richie _lit up_. "Patty!" he said, scandalized and delighted.

"I made you a whole salmon, asshole," said Stan, punctuating his complaint with a flick to the side of Richie's head. Richie leaned into it. His grin was so wide that his eyes were almost closed.

"Me and all the other pescatarians in L.A. thank you for it."

"Richie," Mike said, "You were eating nachos at the bar last night."

"I fucking _knew_ it," Eddie said before he could stop himself. Betrayal overriding his heartsickness, he pointed at Richie as if to say, _there he is, officer, there's the man who lied to me about his dietary restrictions_. "I knew you were a fake pescatarian!"

"I _try_ ," Richie said, gesturing wildly with a pumpkin roll in his hand. As he spoke, Stan neatly plucked the roll from his hand so he couldn't spray the whole table with crumbs. "I try to make healthy choices! So sue me! Sometimes I eat nachos, which, by the way, weren't even very good!"

"No," Ben agreed, "They were terrible."

"Well, whose idea was it to go to Applebee's!"

"Uh, _yours_ , Richie, you suggested it in the first place!" said Bev.

"Prove it in court," Richie said, and then crammed a forkful of salmon into his mouth and wiggled his open jaw until Stan threatened to take him out back and set the hose on him.

The conversation pitched and turned in every direction as they demolished the food. Even without turkey, there was so much food to sample, all of it delicious. Eddie even gamely tried the canned cranberry sauce. He remembered liking it as a child, but Myra made her own cranberry relish, with orange peel. It took her hours; Eddie detested it. But he liked the canned stuff, it turned out. He cut a healthy wedge and ate all of it and resisted the urge to wonder how many calories were in it. In fact, he ate until he was full and then he ate just a little bit more.

Despite all his ineffectual longing and emotional turmoil, it was the best Thanksgiving he'd ever had. No one yelled. No one made passive aggressive comments about what a terrible son he was. Miraculously, no one insisted he eat turkey. They just talked, and ate, and made each other laugh. They still had years of stories to catch up on, decades of anecdotes to share. Patty had them in stitches recounting the antics of her kindergarteners, and Mike told a long, winding story about Bill getting recognized in Sonoma by a disgruntled fan. The fan had accosted them on a hike and followed them through the desert, demanding that Bill explain the ending of one of his novels.

"You know, Big Bill," Richie suggested, "One solution would be to stop writing such shitty endings."

"See, Richie," Bill retorted good-naturedly, "I can't believe you fired your ghostwriters with material like that."

When the plates had all been picked clean, Patty served dessert. Each dish was decadent and mouth-watering—in particular the apple cake, crowned with brown sugar and cinnamon. Bev took one look at the pies in their matching tins and made a despondent noise in her throat. "I want pie," she said sadly. "But I'm too full to eat a whole slice."

"That's a shame," Stan said, "Patty made bourbon whipped cream to go on top."

Pure anguish shone across Bev's face, but only for a second. Ben, reaching for her hand, said, "Do you want to share a piece?"

Bev nodded. Across the table, Bill looked at Mike, eyebrow raised. "No way in hell," Mike said sweetly, "I'm not sharing. Get your own piece."

There wasn't quite enough space for Stan to serve dessert, so Patty gathered a stack of dirty dishes and carried them away. Stan then arranged the desserts around him in a semi-circle, divvying up servings with the precision of a surgeon. A slice of pumpkin for Ben and Bev; pecan for Richie. Mike wanted to try both the cake and the pecan pie, so Bill, who was whipped, got pumpkin so that Mike could share that too. "Eddie, did you want pie?" Stan called, "Or cake? It's Patty's grandma's recipe, it's very good."

"No," Eddie said. "It's fine. I try not to eat gluten."

Stan paused, processing that. When he realized that he had nothing gluten-free to serve Eddie, the hand holding the pie slice drooped. "Eddie, you should have said something—I'd have made something else—"

"It's fine," Eddie insisted, fidgeting in his chair. He could not resist glancing at Richie. This was a mistake: Richie, ignoring his pie, had his chin propped on one hand and he looked sad on Eddie's behalf, mouth turned down and brow creased in concern. Mortified, Eddie pushed his chair back. He seized the closest dirty dish and said, "I'll just—I'll just go help Patty, anyway."

It was really, truly fine, he told himself as he fled. Eddie didn't want dessert. He had purposefully chosen not to mention the gluten-free thing to Stan, and it was _fine_. He'd already eaten a luxurious dinner with his closest friends; there was no need to spoil that by adding unnecessary simple carbohydrates.

In the kitchen, Patty was humming tunelessly to herself as she washed dishes. She had added a striped apron to protect her turkey sweater, which, oddly, made Eddie like her even more. Careful not to startle her, Eddie made plenty of noise as he walked into the room. When she heard him, she turned and smiled.

"Can I help?"

"Oh! Sure, Eddie," she said. "I'm just doing a quick wash so things don't set, but the more the merrier." As Eddie began to roll up his sleeves, she added, "I meant to tell you, your mashed potatoes were so good!"

"It was mostly Bev," he said, embarrassed all over again. "I just did the mashing, and we used the hand mixer."

"I like them that way," Patty said. She rinsed the plate she'd been washing and set it on the dish rack to dry. "That's how I always made them before Stan took over the cooking. Would you like to wash or dry?"

"Dry. My hands get raw in the winter."

That was true—they cracked if he didn't apply lotion religiously—but Eddie also doubted the strength of his left hand with slippery dishes. _Especially_ Patty and Stan's best china. The pattern was very beautiful: tiny blue birds encircled by delicate leaves. Eddie couldn't bear the thought of damaging them, even on accident.

Dabbing her wet hands on her apron, Patty found him a clean dish towel. "Mine too," she said. "I used to wear those plastic yellow gloves to wash the dishes, but I didn't like the texture or the smell. So Stan started buying me very nice lotion, the medicated kind, so my hands wouldn't crack."

He hadn't known there was a medicated kind of lotion. When he and Myra first got married, he'd done the dishes after meals until his hands got chapped and red. Myra, upon discovering this, had summarily banned him from the kitchen.

Eddie resolutely refused to think about Myra tonight. Forcing himself to switch topics, he asked, "How did you and Stan meet?"

Patty paused, mid-scrub, to smile wistfully. "In college. We played a lot of board games, which I imagine isn't how most college students in New York spend their weekends. But I find that doing nothing with Stan is better than doing most things without him."

"Don't you ever get sick of each other?"

She laughed. "Haven't yet."

Eddie wordlessly dried the dishes she handed him. He had been sick of Myra constantly. He got sick after too much time in almost everyone's company. Except for Richie. Fat lot of good that did him, though. "I never thought I had a good marriage," he said, "But it's like the universe keeps finding new ways to tell me how bad it actually was."

When he raised his gaze from the plate he'd been furiously polishing, Patty was watching him, her mouth compressed into a fretful line. "Sorry," Eddie said. "That was too much information."

"It really isn't, Eddie. You're family."

"I don't think I know how to be a part of a family," he said. Eddie didn't think he actually knew how to be a part of _anything_. He'd been a terrible husband and a bad friend, and he kept ruining Thanksgiving, and he was not even very good at fulfilling blood oaths to kill clowns. It was fucking ludicrous that he thought he could take care of Richie. What the hell would he provide in that partnership, apart from poor social skills?

Frowning, Patty shook her head. "From what Stan has told me about you, I don't think that's true."

It had been different when they were kids, Eddie wanted to say, but didn't. And he couldn't articulate _how_ it had been different, only that it had. For a moment, Eddie wondered if he was about to burst into tears and sob all over Patty's turkey sweater. Then he heard someone coming and he quickly grabbed the dishrag again.

"Can I help with anything?" Ben said as he strode into the kitchen, then faltered. "Oh, sorry—am I interrupting?"

"No, Ben," Patty said, "You give those to me, and you can put these away. We were just talking about how Stan and I met."

Warily, Ben came over and slid the stack of dishes onto the counter at Patty's side. "I don't know that story," he said. Eddie, throat still clogged with emotion, kept his head ducked as Patty retold the story. Patty's voice was impossibly full of love when she talked about Stan. Even describing how they had chosen to settle in Atlanta after college—they had made a chart of pros and cons, she said, a very Stan-like way of resolving the issue—she talked about him like he'd hung the stars in the sky.

"And how are you and Bev?" she added, when she'd finished extolling Stan's many virtues.

"We're fantastic," Ben said. It would have sounded like bragging, had anyone but Ben said it. "It's been hard, going through the divorce and the dissolution of her company, but she's so talented, and she works so hard. I love watching her work in the evenings, she's got so many ideas, bursting out of her. She had an interview with the New York Times magazine a few weeks ago, the interviewer was just gushing about her latest designs. It was incredible."

"I saw that article," Eddie said. It had been very complimentary. He'd texted Bev congratulations, then freaked out that he was probably annoying her, then calmed down when she had merely responded, _thanks Eddie! miss you buddy!_

Patty said, "Sounds like Beverly's in good hands with you."

"I'm just lucky to be around her, to get the chance to help her." In the reflection of the kitchen window, Eddie watched Ben lay a hand to his chest. Like he was just overflowing with love. Eddie's stomach felt like a boiling vat of acid, because he would never get the chance to help Richie. "But," Ben continued, "That's what love is all about, right?"

Something snapped inside Eddie's chest. "I don't have a fucking clue, man."

This time, he knew he'd said something crazy, so he was expecting the uncomfortable pause that followed. "Eddie," Ben said, in that understanding tone of voice Eddie loathed, "What are you talking about?"

"I don't _know_ ," Eddie said. "I got divorced and I changed my whole fucking life and I still don't have a fucking clue, okay? At this point, I'm not even sure love is _real_. And if it is real, I guess I'm just not fucking capable of it."

There were no more dishes to dry because Patty hadn't finished washing the one in her hands, because she was looking at him with sympathy instead. _Why_. All Eddie was asking for was something to do with his hands while he had his dramatic little freak-out, and the universe couldn't even provide that. "Eddie—" Ben started to say.

"Sorry," Eddie said, for possibly the millionth time that weekend, "I'm being dramatic. I'm just gonna—"

And then, despite what he had literally just said, Eddie Kaspbrak did the most dramatic thing he could think of: he slapped the dish towel onto the counter and stormed out of the room.

+++

Because his life was a fucking _joke_ , it was Richie who found him later, hiding upstairs on the Juliet balcony. It was not the best hiding spot, but he'd been short on options—he couldn't take the rental car without stranding Ben and Bev, and the idea of waiting for a cab on the front porch made him break out in hives. So he'd gone up and then out. It was a cold, clear night; the morning's rain had dried up and blown away, and Eddie could see the moon and a smattering of stars, even through the suburban Atlanta light pollution.

Richie, charmingly, knocked on the balcony door before stepping out. Eddie refused to be charmed and stayed where he was, leaning over the railing and shivering. "Hey," Richie said, closing the door behind him. "You okay out here? No coat?"

Eddie didn't look at him. "Hey, Rich."

Eddie was so fucking tired of acting like a fool. His therapist said he was afraid to feel his feelings—which Eddie didn't even get, wasn't fear a feeling and ergo wasn't that pat summary of his inadequacies illogical—but Eddie had run the feelings gamut in front of and about Richie this weekend. He didn't want Richie to be in love with him, or think about him, or even look at him.

Well. It would be best if Richie stopped loving him, but Eddie couldn't bring himself to wish for that. Instead, he just stared out at nothing, waiting Richie out.

This plan failed instantly when Richie said, "So. I got you something."

Surprised, Eddie looked up. "What?"

In Richie's big, square hands, he held a present wrapped in blue-and-silver paper, topped with a ribbon. Eddie stared at it, then at Richie's face. He seemed perfectly serious, and when Eddie gaped at him he gently pressed the gift into his hands. "A birthday present. I didn't want to embarrass all our friends by giving it to you in front of them, but, here you go. Open it."

Eddie could not remember the last time he'd received a birthday present. He'd had no friends, and Myra gave him gift cards. He was too hard to shop for, she said. Reeling with shock, Eddie slipped his thumbnail under the neat line of tape and undid the paper. It was a cookbook. He pocketed the ribbon so he could obsess over it later; right now, he flipped the book over to read the title.

"A gluten-free cookbook," Richie explained unnecessarily, "So you can make your own pie, if you want. Disgusting gluten-free pie, but still."

Eddie, overwhelmed, clutched the book to his chest. "This is... really nice, Rich."

It was far more than just _nice_. It was exquisitely painful, the thoughtful gift and all that it implied. Richie had been on the road when they had that conversation; from his Minneapolis hotel room, he remembered something Eddie said and then, with precious few days to spare, had found him a gift. He'd wrapped it. He'd bought wrapping paper and a ribbon—maybe tape.

"Don't sound so surprised," Richie said lightly, "You're gonna give me a complex. Besides, I should have given it to Stan, so he could make you dessert you can actually eat."

Eddie ignored that last comment and stared down at the gift, his pulse doing the tango in his temples and wrists. He knew nothing about psychology, but he did habitually skim the Times science section so he’d have topics for small talk. Crushes, he knew, were caused by powerful neurotransmitters. Right now, Eddie’s brain was flooding with chemicals and that was why his heart felt tender and woozy: it was being battered with hormones that tricked him into thinking he could ever repay Richie's boundless kindness and care.

That was why. That was why Eddie felt a tug behind his sternum while Richie studied him cautiously, hands in his pockets. The wind blew Richie's hair around his face and the moonlight seemed to gild his best features: jawline, cheekbone, the broad span of his chest. It was just chemicals. Trauma responses. Memories he'd allowed himself to believe were feelings.

Eddie stood there, thinking his fake-deep thoughts about psychology, while Richie fiddled with the zipper on his coat.

"Ben says you went crazy."

Eddie exhaled a short, annoyed breath. He put the cookbook down on the little side table and turned away from Richie's watchful gaze. "Ben's a fucking tattletale."

"He didn't say it like that. He was nice, obviously. But he said you were upset," Richie said.

The indignity of it all. Ben, who had let Eddie stay with him upstate for a weekend after Myra threw him out and had said, _wow, Eddie, you're really so strong for handling all of this so well_ , was now skulking around discussing Eddie's feelings. Had they all sat back down at the table and talked about him? Ugh. If Eddie had to have feelings, he didn't understand why he had to have them out loud.

"Eddie," Richie said, interrupting right as Eddie's mental rant built to a feverish crescendo, "Tell me to fuck off if I'm massively out of line here, but. Did it have something to do with me?"

"No," Eddie said. Which was obviously a lie. "Well, maybe, but it's nothing that you did."

It wasn't Richie's fault that Eddie was such a disaster of a person that he was unable to return Richie's feelings. Richie was an insanely smart, handsome celebrity with huge hands and a smile that made Eddie's stomach squirm; Richie was a catch. If Eddie was too stupid to fall in love with Richie, that was on him and him alone.

"Really? Because you kinda disappeared on me last night."

Flinching, Eddie angled away from Richie. He had thoroughly embarrassed himself in front of everyone he cared about, including his favorite coworkers, so why was his face flushing now? "Because I was drunk and being an idiot. And I was—mad. You didn't do anything wrong, I was just being an asshole."

While married, Eddie had discovered that blaming himself for whatever had gone wrong tended to end the argument, at least temporarily. And it _had_ been his fault. Richie was just talking to a hot fan; Eddie was the one who was wasted and jealous and out of line.

But Richie kept picking away at the conversation. "I thought, like—you were leaving, because I left you."

The sharp, reflexive hurt that always reared its head when Eddie thought about being abandoned in Derry surfaced now. Eddie smothered it. "Well, first of all, I was way too drunk to be that petty," he said. But there was no answering laugh; when Eddie turned, Richie stood in the moonlight with his shoulders around his ears.

Sighing, Eddie tried again. "Richie, I—you didn't have to stay with me in Derry. We'd known each other for a week at that point. It's not like I—have a claim on you." He _wanted_ one, but he'd wanted Richie to stay and he wanted to love Richie and neither had fucking happened. Wasn't that just his fucking luck.

"Right," Richie said softly.

Several terracotta flower pots stood on the balcony; Eddie dearly wished he could toss one overboard and shatter it. Instead, he settled for pressing his forehead against the cold wrought-iron railing. "Fuck," he said viciously. "Why am I such a fucking _mess_."

Richie put a hand on his shoulder. Eddie's stomach lurched with dread, wondering what Richie was about to say, but when he spoke it was to ask, "Want a cigarette?" Eddie did not, and told him so. At some length. "Alright, _Jesus,_ Eddie, it was just a question."

"I kissed a guy outside of a bar back in New York, and he was a smoker," Eddie said. His forehead was still on the railing. He could only see Richie's foot and ankle, but it was pretty obvious how Richie froze solid at the word _he_. "Tasted terrible."

"Oh," Richie said, sounding strangled. His hand was still on Eddie's shoulderblade. "That's cool. Who was the guy?"

"Some guy. He was a Mets fan."

"Is that a thing you're doing now? Kissing... Mets fans?"

 _Ask me your real question,_ Eddie thought, but did not say. Instead, he straightened, shrugging just enough that Richie's hand slipped off his back. "I get these fucking crazy ideas in my head," he said. He had no idea why he was doing this. He had not intended to tell anyone, let alone _Richie_ , who loved him. "Like if I just—I wanted to know if I could do it. If I could kiss a guy. Just to prove to myself I could."

There was a long, profound silence, punctuated only by the bare trees rustling below. Eddie hoped that Richie was jealous nearly as much as he feared that Richie didn't give a shit. Maybe Stan was wrong—maybe Richie had never loved him at all. Perhaps Richie had just been doing a long, complicated bit.

"Was it good?" Richie asked. He didn't sound jealous, but his voice was still kind of faint. Did that indicate continued love or no? Mystified, Eddie nodded.

"Yeah."

It _had_ been good. Better than kissing Myra, anyway, and he didn't have much else to compare it to. He'd had a pair of unremarkable college girlfriends, then he'd "buckled down" while he was getting his career in order, and then he'd sleepwalked into marrying Myra. Sadly, the best kiss of his life was with a guy who rooted for the fucking National League, surrounded by garbage cans. Eddie hadn't even gotten the dude's _name_.

"You gonna keep kissing dudes?"

Eddie laughed humorlessly. "I guess not."

"So you kissed some random dude who smokes _and_ who roots for the Mets for no reason?" It sounded even worse coming out of Richie's mouth; Eddie winced. Immediately Richie backtracked. "Sorry. I'm not—I'm not trying to tell you you're gay or anything. You can kiss guys and it means nothing. God knows I've kissed my fair share of straight dudes."

"They were assholes," Eddie snapped. Who the _fuck_ was kissing Richie and then deciding it was a mistake? Whoever was kissing him should be ecstatic just to get the chance. Eddie loathed them—whoever they were. Everyone who'd ever kissed Richie and made him feel bad about it. Hell, everyone who'd ever kissed Richie. Eddie hated them all.

"Sure, some of them," Richie agreed. "But sometimes people are just confused, you know? Sometimes you don't know until you've kissed another guy. Or two."

He was closer now. Eddie turned his head and Richie was right next to him, shielding him from the wind. His coat was still unzipped; Eddie could feel his body heat. They were that close.

It was very hard to think just then. Eddie, swallowing against the sudden lump in his throat, said, "In case you're not sure after the first one?"

He hoped that made sense. He had lost the plot of their conversation. Richie laughed again, and his voice dropped an octave when he said, "Sometimes you're not sure. You sure, Eds?"

Every valve in Eddie's brain slammed open, flooding his nervous system with what felt like pure lightning. Richie was offering to have sex with him. If his words weren't enough, the tilt of his jaw made it abundantly clear. It was probably unethical to have sex with someone who was in love with you when you had merely a stupid crush based on shared trauma and lifelong friendship; it was definitely unethical for Eddie to have sex with Richie in Stan's house—or on Stan's balcony—not twelve hours after assuring Stan he would leave Richie alone.

But here was the thing that Stan didn't understand: if Eddie didn't kiss Richie right now, he was pretty sure he'd die.

Eddie had almost died once. It wasn't fun. He couldn't go through that again. Besides, Richie was already well within kissing distance, fluttering his eyelashes at him. There was no stopping the kiss; Eddie could no sooner have held back the tide. Dropping his gaze to Eddie's mouth, Richie said, "If you're not sure... it wouldn't be a hardship."

A better man would have walked away. Eddie, however, kissed him.

Richie kissed back immediately, putting his huge hands on Eddie's waist and digging his fingers in. Eddie didn't know if it was a good kiss or a bad kiss on his end, but for him, it blew the competition away. How could it not—it was Richie. And Richie kissed him like he was trying to swallow Eddie whole, pressing him into the iron railing until the cold metal bit into Eddie's spine.

Light-headed, Eddie scrabbled at the hem of Richie's sweater with his bad hand, accomplishing nothing. Not nothing—Richie hissed and pressed closer to him, but his sweater stayed stubbornly put. In retaliation, Richie licked into Eddie's mouth, behind his teeth, and Eddie very nearly swooned.

At this point, they knocked the table over. It was only knee-high, so luckily Eddie's birthday present hit the railing instead of sailing into the garden below. But it made a huge racket and they broke apart, chests heaving. Richie recovered first. Laughing breathlessly, he kissed Eddie once more and then stooped to rescue both book and table. "Good thing you didn't lose this," he said, "In case you want gross gluten-free—"

He stopped talking when Eddie yanked him down by the hair. He dropped the cookbook, too, which Eddie would feel guilty about at a time when he wasn't busy sucking on Richie's tongue.

"Can we go to your room?" he asked, when he finally came up for air.

Richie gasped like he'd been punched. "Fucking Christ," he said, holding onto Eddie so tightly that it hurt. "If you're fucking with me, Eddie—"

Ethically, yes, but Eddie wasn't joking. If he was going to make this terrible decision he was going to make it on a bed. He shoved at Richie, and Richie, always a quick study, reached behind him to fumble the balcony door open. 

"Wait—my cookbook—"

Richie didn't release him; he gave just enough slack that Eddie had room to snatch the cookbook up. They tried to be quiet on the landing, but they didn’t let go of each other. The TV was on downstairs, playing what sounded like football, but when Richie closed the guest room door, all Eddie could hear was his own heart pounding.

Richie turned the lock til it clicked. He seemed to be an interesting mix of smugly amused and terrified. "Eddie," he said, all the way over by the door and not moving, "What do you want?"

Eddie had talked a big game, but now that they were here, he was fresh out of ideas. He placed the cookbook on the computer desk next to Richie's guest bed; his hands were shaking. "I don't know."

"That's okay," Richie said. "I'll do whatever, you know that."

 _Then marry me,_ Eddie thought desperately. "Get over here and kiss me then."

Richie, with that unbearable sweetness he had always possessed but fiercely guarded, crossed the room and put his mouth on Eddie's.

Stripping off his clothes while Richie watched hungrily made him feel panicky, but Eddie persevered. And then _Richie_ took off his shirt. Eddie, genuinely distressed, forgot to be nervous as he reached out to dragged a hand down Richie's chest. "Seriously?" he demanded. "This is what you look like shirtless?"

"How do you think I feel?" Richie said, undoing the button on Eddie's slacks. His knuckles brushed against Eddie's dick through his underwear, making him shiver. "Eds, you look fucking unreal."

"If you like scars," Eddie mumbled.

Snorting, Richie crowded him onto the bed. "Do you hear me complaining?"

Eddie truly had no idea what he wanted. He had a vague idea as to which sex acts were possible, but he hadn't done his research. He'd told himself that they would figure it out after Richie agreed to marry him, but really, he was intimidated. Luckily, Richie didn't seem to need instruction—he shoved Eddie up the bed and rocked their hips together. Eddie, stuttering out a breath, tightened his fingers where they were clutching the back of Richie's neck.

"Yeah?" Richie said, genuinely asking. Eddie nodded, opening his legs to let Richie rut up against him.

"Yeah Richie," he said, "Just like this."

It was messy and inelegant and unsophisticated as hell. Eddie didn't care—he loved it. Richie tucked his face into Eddie's neck as he rubbed up against his stomach, each thrust making his rough stubble catch against the underside of Eddie's jaw. It stung just right, sending pinpricks of pleasure across his skin. With his good hand, Eddie clung to Richie like a barnacle, and with his other he traced the ridges of his spine. Richie's back muscles flexed as he worked their dicks together; Eddie could feel it. It was possibly the sexiest thing that had ever happened to him in his life.

Grinding together was good, but they weren't twenty anymore; after a few minutes, Eddie needed more. Halting Richie with a hand to the chest—and Richie stopped instantly, which made Eddie dizzy with power—Eddie squirmed out of his underwear. "Off," he said, snapping the waistband of Richie's boxers against his hip. Again, Richie did as he'd been told. He drove Eddie crazy, even as he did nothing but sit, panting, working his boxers down to his knees.

Eddie sat up and checked him out. So, that was Richie's dick. It was a normal human appendage. It was fine. Eddie was familiar with the general shape and concept, but it was _Richie's_ dick, which made it special. "You gotta stop staring," Richie said urgently, making Eddie raise his gaze. Richie had gone pink all over in the bad way, flushed and mouth twisted unhappily. "I know I'm like, whatever—"

"Shut the fuck up, Richie," Eddie said, then took him in hand. "You are not _whatever_."

Jerking Richie off was comparable, if not identical, to getting himself off. The important differences were that everything was backward and that Richie made desperate, choked-off noises every time Eddie twisted his wrist. There were other, smaller differences: Richie liked a faster rhythm than Eddie did; he gasped when Eddie thumbed under the head of his cock. There wasn't going to be a next time, but Eddie still filed all those details away.

"Wait," Richie said, putting a hand on Eddie's wrist to still him. "I don't want to come yet."

"You _don't_?" Eddie said, incredulous.

"No, dumbass," Richie said, "I want to get you off."

Richie was so much better at this than he was, Eddie realized quickly. For one, he had two hands to work with, and for two, he knew exactly what he was doing. While he jerked Eddie's dick, he traced the slats of his ribcage, reaching up to twist Eddie's nipple between his fingers. Eddie hissed, hips jumping. "Good, right?" Richie said. "You are so hot, Eds, I can't believe this is happening, and in Stan's house no less."

"Shut _up_ ," Eddie said, and he dug his teeth into Richie's plush lower lip to make him stop talking.

Richie made him come embarrassingly quickly. Worse was that Eddie came all over his stomach and thighs, narrowly missing the bottom of his hideous scar. "Sexy," Richie said approvingly, as he went back to sucking on the tender spot beneath Eddie's ear.

"Bitch," Eddie said, but his heart wasn't in it. His limbs felt blissfully like jelly; it was all he could do not to dissolve into the mattress. Instead, he dragged his hand through his own come and tightened it around Richie, giving him a warm, tight space to fuck into. "Come on, Richie. Want to see you come."

Probably Eddie wasn't great at sex, but he must not be terrible—Richie practically went cross-eyed as he started fucking Eddie's fist. When he came, Richie made a spectacularly dumb face and moaned Eddie's name like he was dying. Afterwards, he dropped his head heavily into Eddie's shoulder. Eddie let him. Maybe it was the afterglow speaking, but Eddie felt impossibly, unbearably fond of Richie in that moment. While Richie took shuddering gasps against Eddie's collarbone, Eddie tangled his fingers in Richie's hair. Soft, he thought dreamily.

When Richie's brain came back online, he pushed up on his elbows to kiss him again. Richie _really_ liked kissing, Eddie noticed, which was just fine with him. They made out lazily for a few minutes, until the spunk cooling on Eddie's stomach started to itch. Richie made a distressed noise as Eddie rolled out of bed, but Eddie had only gone to fetch the Kleenex off the dresser. Cleaned them both efficiently, he then folded the dirty tissues up and shoved them to the bottom of the wastepaper basket. Richie watched him do this with a smirk.

"What?" Eddie said. Because he was weak, he climbed back into bed. Richie craned his neck to kiss him, but Eddie reared back, unable to let it go. "Do you want Stan to find our jizz tissues? Or _Patty?_ "

Richie laughed in his face. This time when he nuzzled his nose against the curve of Eddie's cheek, Eddie let himself be kissed. "So, Eds," Richie asked, pressing kisses to the corner of Eddie's mouth, "You gay now or what?"

"Shut the fuck up, Richie," Eddie said heatedly. He had just had the best sex of his life at forty-one years old, in the Blum-Uris guest room, with his best friend who was in love with him. If he had to admit that he was definitely attracted to men and hadn't noticed for four decades, he might vaporize from stress.

"Alright," Richie said, shrugging. Irked, Eddie sat up and fixed him with his most intimidating glare.

"Be honest," he said, "Was that the worst sex you've ever had?"

Richie burst out laughing and covered his face with his hands. "God," he said, into his cupped hands. "I'm—obsessed with you." This wasn't an answer. Eddie was about to insist on one, but then Richie lowered his hands. "No, Eds. It was pretty good. Top three."

"Who the fuck are you sleeping with?" Eddie demanded. He didn't want a fake compliment. "There's no way I should be _that_ good, unless you've been exclusively sleeping with like, the sexually inept."

"The sexually inept? God, you're so mean to me," Richie said, delighted. "What can I say, Eddie. Maybe I just find being scowled at in bed to be breathtakingly erotic."

Eddie squinted at him, but Richie's answering smile was beatific. He had one hand behind his head, which made the band of muscles in his upper arm and chest rise up under his skin. Eddie was furious at him—for speaking, for having muscle definition under that layer of subcutaneous fat, for having a weird sexy body that made Eddie's throat dry up. It wasn't _fair_. Rather than think about it, Eddie laid down with his head on Richie's shoulder. "That's probably a real fetish, you know," he said. When he was settled, he added sharply, "And I wasn't scowling. I was _nervous_."

Richie laughed, but nicely. "I know," he said. "Eds. It was perfect."

Overwhelmed, Eddie hid his face in Richie’s neck. How dare Richie say that to him, when Eddie was already terminally fucked up over him?

Richie, oblivious, reached up and slid his arms around Eddie. Eddie allowed it. He felt... contained. Safe. He remembered being younger, crawling into the hammock with Richie already in it. They had barely fit, like anchovies packed into a tin, and Richie would whine that Eddie was all pointy edges but he never moved away. Between them, there had been too many limbs but Eddie had never cared, even when their bare skin touched.

What was the point of having a body, Eddie wondered, as he wormed his way deeper into the circle of Richie's arms. Even if he ignored the whole fragile mortality deal—and it was hard to ignore, on account of the ten-inch scar and lasting nerve damage—a body was just a damp disease vector that made manifest the general indignity of being alive. Richie's body was hairy and covered in sweat; his vulnerable stomach rose and fell under Eddie’s chest in time with his breathing. Stretch marks scored the curve of his soft waist. Eddie touched the marks, lightly, with his finger, wondering when they had appeared on Richie’s skin. Late adolescence, when he’d shot up a half foot after Eddie moved away? His twenties, when he’d been living in New York only a few miles away? Later still? _God,_ Eddie wished he'd known him then.

Richie shifted. "Tickles."

"Sorry," Eddie said, without raising his head. He couldn't bear to look Richie in the eye, because Richie was in love with him and Eddie was so massively selfish that he'd had sex with him anyway. Instead, he looked at Richie's hands. They were good hands—the ten customary digits, short nails, neat nailbeds. Richie didn't protest as Eddie carefully turned his hand over, inspecting it closely. The dark hair that grew on his arms tapered off around his metacarpal bones; when Eddie ran his hand through it Richie shivered. There were calluses on his right hand from holding a pen, but his left hand was bare. Eddie, hypnotized, traced his left ring finger from nail to knuckle. That, he thought sadly, was where the ring would have gone.

"You good?" Richie asked, and Eddie, startled, dropped Richie's hand.

"Uh," he said, "I need lotion."

"Why?" Richie said. "I just finished jerking you off."

"No, I just—my hands get dry." As if to underline his point, he flexed his hand, letting the rasp of his skin speak for itself. Richie laughed again.

"Okay. Stay there," he said, and then he rolled himself out from under Eddie's grip and stood up, walking to his suitcase. He was still naked but he didn't give a shit; Eddie watched him, eyes wide. Richie knelt on the carpet—still naked—and dug through his suitcase. "You look so fucking cute, you know that?"

"No, I don't."

"Yeah you do," Richie said, grinning widely. When he rose, a tube of unscented hand lotion in his left hand, the carpet had left a burled imprint on his knees. Richie crawled onto the bed and dumped a glob of lotion into his hands. "Give me your paws."

Eddie obligingly did so, and Richie rubbed the lotion into his skin. He was careful but thorough, using his thumbs with just the right amount of pressure. With Eddie's left hand, he was quietly conscientious of Eddie's injury, the way he always was. In return, Eddie reached out and pressed his thumb into the carpet-fiber-pattern still indented on Richie's knees.

Maybe, Eddie thought, this was the point of having a body: so that Richie could touch him. So he could touch Richie too.

"Was it..." Richie said, still looking down at Eddie's hand in his, his eyelashes fanned over his cheeks in a perfect arc. Somebody ought to be writing sonnets about Richie's eyelashes; Eddie had never been more furious at his total lack of poetic talent. "I mean, did you—"

 _Oh._ Richie was nervous. "Richie," Eddie said insistently, and he paused so that Richie would look at him. "It was—perfect. You were perfect."

Maybe he couldn't give Richie the love he deserved, but Eddie could at least give him _that_.

In response, Richie blushed all over and ducked his head. Because he was Richie, he added in a self-deprecating voice, "Jesus fucking Christ, Eds, your expectations must be rock bottom or something."

He was such a little dipshit. Eddie wanted to kiss the top of his head. He wanted to give Richie the ring he'd bought. He wanted to have sex with Richie again, immediately, in a hundred combinations, some of which he hadn't even thought about yet—he was sure inspiration would strike him when the time was right. Eddie wanted. He was basically not a person, just a bag of want.

Not that it mattered, because the fundamental calculation had not changed. If anything, Eddie had only made things harder on himself.

The lotion had long since absorbed; Richie was now just holding his hand, stroking his thumb along the topmost line of Eddie's palm. Gently, Eddie tugged his hand free. "Hey," he said. "I, uh. I don't really want to sneak out in front of everyone in the morning. So I think I'm going to go back to the hotel?"

Richie digested that with an unreadable expression on his face. "You sure? Stan won't mind. He'll make us change the sheets, but he won't mind."

"Yeah," Eddie said, "I'm sure."

Rising on shaky legs, he dressed while Richie sat cross-legged on the mattress, watching him. Eddie did his best to pretend Richie wasn't there as he wriggled into his clothes. The hormones—the crush— _whatever_ it was, it was screaming at him not to go. But the cold logic of rationality told him that the longer he stayed, the worse the inevitable parting would be. So he hunted down his socks and belt and tried not to think about it.

Then he was dressed. And Richie was still naked and going nowhere. Eddie tucked the cookbook under his arm and got out his phone, intending to hail a ride. But he hesitated. Richie, expression puzzled, watched Eddie fight an internal battle with himself, _ordering_ himself to leave and yet not moving.

"Well!" Eddie said. "Bye then."

He forced himself to the door. His resolve immediately crumbled, and he doubled back to kiss Richie again. Tipping Richie's jaw up, Eddie kissed him with everything he had. His chest felt like a funeral pyre, but he refused to think about that or anything that wasn't Richie's mouth under his.

When they finally parted, Richie wore a tiny, sweet smile; Eddie's chest throbbed along the scar tissue. "Bye Eds," he said, "See you tomorrow."

Eddie, very carefully, said nothing of the kind in return as he slipped out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings: alcohol, vomiting and hangovers; discussion of stan's non-fatal suicide attempt & the aftermath thereof, including insensitive phrasing; soap opera-style feelings reveal; stan holds proscriptive opinions about the purpose of marriage that the author does not share; sonia's emotional abuse; myra mention; eddie is disgusted with himself for having normal feelings and emotions; eddie's tortured relationship with food; discussions of therapy, smoking, injury & body image; richie mentions kissing straight dudes; eddie's been thoroughly disconnected from his own sexuality for most of his life & he feels some type of way about it.
> 
> sorry this is late! events absolutely will NOT stop happening. but the last chapter should be up next wednesday as per usual. see you in 2021!


	5. Friday, Friday Again, Saturday

The only good thing about getting trashed on cheap Applebee's martinis and spending Thanksgiving day perilously hungover was that Eddie slept deeply on Thursday night. He was, simply put, too exhausted to freak out. Unfortunately, when he woke, exhausted and bleary and a few minutes before his alarm, the panic was waiting for him.

He rose from his bed frantically. He showered in a frenzy. Right as he was anxiously brushing his teeth, his phone lit up, and he nearly broke his neck sprinting to the nightstand to snatch it up. But it was just a text from Melissa, not Richie. _Forgot to send this picture yesterday!_ she wrote, underneath a photo of her and two other smiling women, all wearing football jerseys. _Here's me and the roomies post-dinner. Eddie how did ur salmon turn out??_

The reference to Richie's salmon was like a stab directly to the heart. Eddie, swearing profusely, banged his head against the wall. _Good,_ he responded. _Happy Thanksgiving to you both._

_Devon!! Now send us a pic of your cute kid!!_

Every time his phone buzzed with an incoming text, Eddie's heart flipped around his chest, but it was still not Richie, only Devon's reply. In the picture he sent, Devon, his wife and their rosy-cheeked daughter were crowded around an older woman with a scowl on her face. _Happy Turkey day. You were right Eddie btw. Alexis's mom knew it was a set-up..._

Eddie furiously muted the conversation. Normally he liked seeing pictures of Devon's baby, and he would find time to be confused yet pleased about the group chat as a whole later. Right now, he was trying to decide whether he should meet Ben and Bev, or blow them off and continue losing his shit in private. The itinerary Stan had provided reserved Friday for "unscheduled free time," but at dinner the night before, Ben and Mike had been talking about going to an outlet mall. Eddie, who hated shopping and crowds and Christmas, had been unenthused _before_ he blew up his entire life by sleeping with Richie. Now it sounded like the innermost circle of hell.

What was he supposed to do? Play it cool, like he hadn't kissed Richie and seen him naked and had tender, devastating sex with him, the best of Eddie's whole life? They hadn't discussed what obligations to one another sex might create; Richie probably still thought Eddie was straight, since that was how the kiss had happened in the first place. Eddie had also thought he was straight, but he was now fairly confident he was not, since even his raw, full-throated panic could not stop his mind from dreamily returning to Richie's mouth and his big, skillful hands.

He ordered himself to stop thinking that way. His brain gleefully ignored the order. It had become utterly insubordinate, as had his heart and dick. No part of Eddie was on-book this morning, so how could he get in a car and go to a mall and pretend that things were normal?

He couldn't leave. But he couldn't face Richie, either. What was he supposed to say? _Thanks for the handjob, it was very nice, see you next Thanksgiving?_ Or was he going to have to stand in front of Richie, who loved him, and tell him, _sorry, I can't, I can't, I can't._

Eddie closed his eyes. He covered them, too, and stared at the dark, splotchy shapes behind his eyelids, trying to summon the perfect combination of words that would make Richie understand why he had to say no—without losing him.

While he was standing there, hands over his eyes like a child, wishing ardently for something that didn't exist, his phone buzzed again. Eddie lowered his hands. This time it _was_ Richie. The short, simple message felt like a kick to the stomach.

_Hey. when you get here can we talk?_

Eddie stared at his phone. Yeah, there was no fucking way he could handle _that_.

First, he punched the pillows on the bed. It made his left shoulder ache, the referred pain lancing through his damaged nerves, but it made the rest of him feel better. Then, like a coward, Eddie opened the Losers group chat and sent, _I'm so sorry but I think I have food poisoning._

He just had time to see Bev write back, _?????_ before he shut his phone off. Then he shoved it at the bottom of his suitcase, underneath his extra pairs of shoes. For good measure, he stuck the suitcase in the closet too, and finally, he took the landline off the hook.

Unfortunately, Bev knew where his room was. Eddie had not considered this, because he was too busy losing his shit to be logical. It was doubtful that she would have let not knowing stop her—Bev had always been stubborn. In any case, thirteen minutes later, she was pounding on the door loud enough to wake the whole hotel. "Eddie," she yelled through the door, "You'd better be dying! We're supposed to be going to the mall! Now open this door before I get the concierge to bust it open."

"She's serious, Eddie!" Ben added.

Eddie wasn't a Marriott rewards member or anything, but he was way too old and boring to get banned by a hotel chain for bad behavior. Swearing under his breath, he stopped pacing in ever-smaller circles and unlocked the door. On the other side of it stood Ben and Bev, wearing their puffy winter coats and matching frowns.

"Funny," Bev said archly. "You don't _look_ sick."

"I can explain," Eddie lied, as they swept into the room. Bev raised an eyebrow, as if to say _go on;_ Eddie's charade crumbled. "Fuck. Okay, I can't. I ruined Thanksgiving. The first time I spent a holiday with people who don't hate me in my whole life, and I ruined it."

"First of all," Ben said, clapping a reassuring hand on Eddie's shoulder, "You didn't ruin anything. Now. What's going on?"

Wincing, Eddie stared despondently at Ben's shoes. "I have to flee the state."

"Eddie," Bev said.

"You're right," he said. "The _country_."

"Eddie!"

God, this was worse than informing Myra he was leaving her. Eddie, abjectly miserable, said in a small voice, "I kissed Richie."

Bev and Ben exchanged a look. "That's good, right?" Ben said.

"Or were you going to marry him without ever kissing?"

Eddie shook his head. "Then I slept with him."

He expected more of a reaction than he got. Instead, Bev lifted an eyebrow very slightly; that was all. Ben, at least, had the courtesy to whistle through his teeth. "Well, you two are moving right along."

"No, we're not," Eddie said. He clutched at his own face in dismay and started pacing again. "Stan told me that Richie is in love with me, and he said I needed to back off, because I have a crush and I'm not in love with him. And I slept with him anyway!"

"Alright, Eddie, now I'm confused," Bev said. She sounded it, too, her eyebrow fully raised now. "When you said you were going to marry him, did you mean _this weekend?_ "

"I was going to ask this weekend, I figured we'd... y'know. It's not something you can get accomplished _right_ away."

 _That_ got their attention. Ben looked between the two of them, unsure what to say; for a moment the three of them stood in a pensive—or, in Eddie's case, frantic—silence. "Okay," Bev said slowly. She eased a hip onto the hotel desk and squinted at him, considering him. "So you don't love him, but you _do_ want to marry him?"

"You don't get it. He can't cook!" Eddie said in anguish, hands slicing through the air. Everyone always got stuck on the whole marriage thing, as if it were _that_ unusual to marry someone you didn't love. Eddie had done it once already, and apart from being miserable, he and Myra had had a perfectly adequate marriage for almost a decade. "There's tax benefits, and he—he needs someone to take care of him! And I can be that person, right? And I'd get to hang out with him every day, which is all I want anyway!"

Ben and Bev looked at each other, silently communicating. Bev shook her head minutely; Ben nodded and came to perch beside her on the edge of the flimsy desk. Eddie had a sudden impression that they were both humoring him, or at the very least trying not to let their true thoughts show on their faces. "Okay," Ben said, "Well, have you tried talking to Richie about this? Because if he loves you and you like him, maybe he would want to try dating. See how it goes."

"What?" Eddie was appalled. "I can't _do that_. He loves me, I can't toy with his feelings like that!"

"Eddie, he's an adult," Bev said. "Tell him how you feel and let him decide."

"But I _can't_ love him. Believe me, I would if I could." For a moment Eddie was so crushed by the futility of the situation he had to sit down heavily on the bed. After a beat he added bitterly, "The problem is that I'm so fucking selfish I want to ask him to just forget about being in love with me so we can get married anyway. Or maybe not get married. I think I could be okay with it if we could spend the rest of our lives together, even if he married somebody else."

Somebody good for him. Somebody who could give him what Eddie couldn't.

There came another long pause. Eddie hadn't heard this many fraught silences since childhood; at least these ones didn't end in hysterical crying jags.

"Eddie," Ben said slowly, hands held palms-up, as if trying to ward off offense, "Are you _sure_ you don't love him? Because from an outside perspective..."

"I'm sure. I mean, yeah, he's my favorite person, he always been. And we talk on the phone every single day, which—I used to screen Myra's calls, even when I went out of town, but it's not like that with him. He gave me a birthday present last night, and it was _thoughtful_. And I want to be in love with him, so _badly_ , but I'm not. I can't pretend I am. He's too important, and my mom—no," Eddie said, shaking his head fiercely, "I can't do it."

He stared down at the rubbery hotel carpet, tightening his fists in his hair until both his scalp and the whole left side of his body ached.

Across the room, Ben started to speak, but Bev interrupted him. "Ben. Let me get this one."

Eddie did not look up. He was sure he was about to either get a bracing pep talk about how he was _not a bad person, not at all,_ but he figured it would end in Bev, like Stan, like Bill, telling him to back off and buy a plant. Eddie didn’t even _like_ plants.

But Bev surprised him by saying, "Honey. What do you think love is?"

"Huh?"

"Love," Bev repeated. "What do you think it is? Because you sound like you're in love with him. You think about him constantly, you want to spend the rest of your lives together, you care about him, you slept with him, you want to be _married_ to him—is this not ringing _any_ bells?"

Eddie scoffed. But she was serious; she met his gaze and didn't blink. Ben, too, was waiting expectantly. _Oh God,_ Eddie thought. They were both delusional. Hadn't they met him before? Didn't they understand why the very suggestion was ridiculous? Eddie didn't have a slideshow to explain why it was absurd to pretend that he was capable of loving Richie, but he thought it should be obvious, based on _everything about him._

"But I care about all of you," he said, because that was a less pathetic but equally valid objection.

"Well, you love us too, Eddie," Ben said, "And we love you, of course we do. But Richie's different, isn't he?"

"Don't you remember when he left and went back to California? Eddie, you _cried_."

Eddie _had_ cried, but not strictly because of Richie. He'd been overwhelmed, on drugs, with medical gauze packed into the brand-new, painful hole in his chest and a grim prognosis about the extent of his nerve damage, and Richie knew all of that but left anyway. When Stan told him Richie was gone, Eddie cried so hard he'd hyperventilated—they'd had to bring in a nurse to coach him through breathing before he popped his stitches. But he had gotten over this. Mostly. It had been fucked up for Richie to go, but Eddie wasn't crying himself to sleep over it anymore.

"Because it was a dick move," he said, referring to the leaving. Sweat was starting to collect in the small of his back and palms, for no particular reason; he dragged his hands against his thighs, hoping Ben and Bev didn't notice.

"Yeah, it was a dick move," Bev agreed, "But you almost died and you got divorced and a million other bad things happened, and the only time I've seen you cry was when Richie left without saying goodbye."

Ben added, "Bill went and shot the rest of his movie, and you told him to send you a postcard!"

Eddie opened his mouth and shut it again. That was _different_. First of all, Bill had not left under the pretext of going back to the Townhouse to shower and then never returned. Unfortunately, the only other difference that Eddie could think of was that Bill was not Richie. It was acceptable that Bill flew to California to salvage his movie, but Richie leaving? Richie leaving was like getting stabbed all over again.

That sounded dramatic. But it was true.

"Does that not sound like love to you?" Bev asked, voice painfully gentle.

"No—I don't _know_ ," Eddie said, desperation creeping along his skin. He took a fistful of the ugly hotel bedspread and worried it between his fingers. "So what if Richie's different—it doesn't change _me_. If I was going to love someone, it should have been my wife. Right? If I couldn't make myself love her, then why would now be any different?"

"Look," Bev said, "Speaking as another person who married a substitute for their shitty abusive parent, forget about Myra. How do you feel about _Richie_?"

Eddie could write a book on how he felt about Richie, but it wouldn't be a very interesting one—it would be a record of everything Richie had ever done or said. It would be crammed full of all the trivial, insignificant things they'd done together: the summer Richie had learned to drive and he drove Eddie everywhere, his arm slung behind Eddie's armrest. How Richie had stuck his fingers under Eddie's peeling, ratty _lover_ cast just to irritate him, but it had always given Eddie goosebumps instead. Cutting class because it was an excuse to hang out with him, waving his cigarette smoke away and pressing their legs together under the picnic table. Stuff like that. And then the weekend he'd slept on the pull-out while Richie was in town, and transcripts of all their phone calls from this last year, Eddie in New York and Richie in California or on the road. Eddie, calling him every night, just to hear his voice. Just to feel a fraction closer to him.

"I feel like he is the most important person in my life," Eddie said slowly, "And I want to make him happy. I just—I don't want to screw this up."

"You won't."

"I _will_ ," he insisted. "I can't, Bev. I can't do it, I don't know how."

"Can't or won't?" Bev challenged, putting every ounce of her stubbornness into it. "You're not your mom. Know what you are, Eddie? You're a lover. Remember?" She tapped her right arm meaningfully, in the same spot where, twenty-eight years ago, Eddie had defiantly changed an S to a V in bright red ink.

Eddie said nothing, just sat on the bed, heart pounding.

"You don't have to marry him," Bev concluded. "But Jesus, Eddie. Admit to yourself how you much you love him, before you explode."

Still not trusting himself to speak, Eddie turned to Ben. Ben only smiled. "What Bev said."

"But," Eddie said, anxiety twisting him into knots, "What if it _is_ a crush, and I break his fucking heart? Or just sexual experimentation? I mean, I think it's more than that, because I kissed some guy in New York, to make sure I could kiss men, and I was so jealous when Richie flirted with that bartender I almost threw up. Also the sex with Richie was, like. Really fucking good."

"You kissed some guy in New York?" Ben repeated.

Eddie could feel himself blushing. "It was a thought experiment," he said defensively. "Also. He—well. He kinda looked like Richie."

They both stared at him. " _Eddie,_ " said Bev.

"Fuck!" Eddie yelled, leaping off the mattress and balling both hands into fists. "You're telling me _this_ is what love is? My brain is fucking mush, and I've been thinking about Richie every second for the last _year_ , and he can't cook and he doesn't jog and he's so rude and mean and goofy, and I don't even care! I still want to lick his tonsils!"

Outburst over, he immediately felt a cold trickle of embarrassment roll down his spine. "Sorry."

"Don't be," Ben said. There was shock in his expression—Eddie had yelled pretty loudly there—but amusement and affection, too. "I like Eddie in love."

Eddie collapsed onto the bed once more, all his joints giving out like a falling building. He put his elbows on his knees and stared down at the carpet. Love. What the fuck? If it was love, when had it started? What had made it happen? How the _fuck_ had he not noticed he was wandering around, so fucking besotted that it was apparently pouring out of him like beams of light?

"I'm in love with him?" he said faintly.

"Seems that way," Bev agreed.

"I'm in love with him," he said again. It didn't feel possible, but he seemed to have eliminated all the other plausible options. If he was honest, good tax planning was important but it wasn't _that_ important; he'd never lost a moment of sleep over it until he'd thrown Richie and marriage into the mix.

Raising his head, he said, "Should I go talk to him?"

"Is that a serious question?" Bev said in disbelief.

Eddie glared at her. Was it not clear yet that he didn't know what in the absolute fuck he was doing? "Is that a yes?"

"Eddie," Ben said, sounding more long-suffering than Eddie had ever heard him, "Put your shoes on, and get in the car."

+++

They refused to let him drive. Ben said he was a flight-risk and Bev said she wasn't subjecting herself to Eddie's driving, today of all days. That pissed Eddie off—he wasn't _that_ bad, he wasn't Patty—but he didn't argue. He didn't argue once, not even when they hustled him out of the room before he could shave or even do his hair. He was going to Richie, heart in hand, looking like a ragamuffin, but Bev swore it would not matter.

"Just tell him how you feel," Ben said. He was driving; Eddie was in the passenger seat, doing deep breathing exercises. "Don't put too much pressure on it."

"Yeah, don't rush him," Bev agreed, rubbing Eddie's shoulders like a boxing coach, "Unlike you, honey, he probably hasn't been thinking about your wedding all weekend."

Eddie, who hadn't even _begun_ to contemplate a wedding where Richie would be in a suit, on an altar, waiting for him, had to close his eyes and put his head between his knees.

At Stan and Patty's house, Ben parked at the end of the driveway. The long walk to the front door seemed to loom in front of him like the journey to the guillotine; gulping, Eddie forced himself out of the car. "I can do this," he said, to himself more than Ben and Bev. "I can do it."

When he got to the porch, though, panic slammed into him like an eighteen wheeler. "Oh my god! I can't do this!"

"Yes, you can, Eddie—" Ben started to say, but Eddie shook his head.

"No, I'm not chickening out—I need _flowers_ , I don't even know what kind he likes—"

"Too late for that!" Bev said in a sing-song voice, propelling him towards the door. Eddie was considering biting her when the front door swung open and Stan stepped out, blinking against the glare.

"Too late for what?"

Eddie swallowed against the lump in his throat. "Hi Stan."

"Hi Eddie," Stan said. He was in his pajamas, and he looked deeply unimpressed to see them standing on his front porch. "Food poisoning cleared up, huh?"

Wincing, Eddie took an involuntary step back and bumped into Ben; Ben steadied him. Knowing that he and Bev were there, literally and physically supporting him, did something to quell Eddie's nerves. "Stan, I know I'm being the worst houseguest in the history of the world this weekend," he said, as Stan continued to regard him coolly, lips pursed, "But I have to talk to Richie."

If Stan didn't let him in, Eddie didn't know what he'd do—go to the airport and wait for Richie? Fly to L.A.? But after a long beat, Stan, sighing, stepped back to allow them entry. "You're not the worst. Just—" His eyes looked tired behind his glasses. "Just be gentle with him, okay?"

"Yeah Eddie! Go get your man!" Bev cried, as Eddie stumbled into the house, so grateful his knees seemed to have turned to water.

"Is that what's happening right now?" Stan said, as Ben and Bev piled in behind him. He shut the door and gave Eddie a different look now, surprised and—if Eddie's eyes didn't deceive him—hopeful. "You're going to go get him?"

Eddie swallowed hard once more. "If he wants me?"

The others were gathered in the kitchen; Stan led him there and then stood aside so Eddie could enter. Inside, Patty, Bill and Mike stood gathered around the island, upon which Richie was slumped bodily. He didn't seem to be in pain, just emotional distress—he was mumbling something into the granite countertop while Patty touched him consolingly on the arm.

Eddie stood in the doorway, watching him, heart beating so hard he wondered why everyone couldn't hear it.

"Hi," he said without preamble.

Everyone—other than Richie, who remained a jellied blob upon the island—jumped. "Eddie!" Patty said. "You're here! How are you feeling?"

"What?" Eddie said, before remembering the excuse he'd texted them before shutting off his phone. "Oh, I'm fine, I was lying about that. Listen, sorry to barge in but, uh. Richie. Can I talk to you?"

Everyone else exchanged glances; Eddie ignored them. He only had eyes for Richie.

After a long beat, Richie pulled himself up from his sprawl over the island and looked over his shoulder at Eddie, expression flat. "Why?"

"Because—because," Eddie said, flustered. He had not expected resistance, although he should have. He hadn't exactly behaved well over the last twelve hours. "We have things we should talk about."

"Like what?"

"Like— _things,_ Richie."

Richie rolled his eyes for so long it must have hurt. Huffing, he heaved himself to his feet. "Fine," he said, shaking his head as if he couldn't believe this was even happening. "Whatever."

Sullenly, Richie shrugged on a coat and followed him outside. Eddie was keenly aware, as he shut the sliding door after Richie, that the back wall of Stan's house was primarily made of glass. He could see Patty's blonde head peeking out through the window over the sink, and he assumed the others were stationed all along the back wall. As if in confirmation, the blinds twitched.

Great. Just what he needed—an audience. But he couldn't run away now, so instead he said, "Can you—you should sit."

With a certain showy theatricality, Richie dragged one of the Adirondack chairs into the middle of the deck. Once seated, he scowled at a point just past Eddie, like he couldn't even be bothered to glower directly at him. "So," he drawled, staring at nothing, "Did you hate the cookbook that much?"

"What? No," Eddie said. The cookbook was still in his hotel room, but Eddie liked it. A lot. He'd sadly leafed through the recipes last night, thinking about Richie all the while. "Sorry, I'm just nervous."

Richie made a disparaging noise. "Eddie, I know you haven't let a lot of guys down easy, but you're gonna wanna keep expectations low, turn the blame back around, and get out fast. No handwringing, no apologizing."

"I'm not letting you down easy," Eddie said with a flicker of annoyance. Richie, as usual, was covering up his hurt with rudeness. Knowing that he did this didn't make it any more pleasant to experience.

"You blew me off at Applebee's and you blew me off this morning. Christ, Eddie, you lied about being sick. In my experience, that's the prelude to being let down easy."

"That's not—" Eddie broke off to steady himself, taking grounding breaths and looking up at the Juliet balcony where they'd kissed last night. Thinking about the kiss made it easier to be brave. "First of all, you shouldn't let people treat you like that."

"Apart from you?"

"No, not apart from me! Jesus, Rich. Especially not me!"

Still looking anywhere but Eddie, Richie mumbled, "Guess it wasn't perfect after all."

Eddie stared at him. "Richie," he said, "It _was_ perfect. I just—I had to get my head on straight."

Snorting, Richie pressed his hands so far into his coat pockets that the fabric warped and bulged, his shoulders level with ears. He did this sometimes—played at being small. When Eddie's mom had driven them out of Maine the summer before senior year, Richie hadn't yet hit his growth spurt, but he'd held his real height like a promise in his gawky teenage frame. Reunited in Derry, he'd been enormous, but he kept doing this. Kept shrinking himself. As if he could collapse in far enough that nobody else could ever hurt him.

Eddie's heart throbbed painfully with an emotion he could now identify. This anxious devotion and overwhelming tenderness were love. He loved Richie. He loved him, even when he was curled up like a pillbug, pissed off and being mean.

"Eddie," Richie said flatly, "This is a real mixed message. Especially since you ran out on me _twice_. Who do you think you are, me?"

In _what world_ was going back to the hotel equivalent to Richie flitting off to California without a goodbye. "You know what? _Fine_ ," Eddie said, temper flaring. Just because he was in love with Richie didn't mean he had gotten over the indignity and pain of being abandoned, in Derry of all fucking places. "Let's fucking talk about that. Remember how I had a hole in my chest and you left me?"

Richie said nothing. His mouth was pressed so tightly together that his lips were white lines.

"Richie, that fucking— _sucked._ You didn't even say goodbye. I was just waiting and waiting, and Stan told me you had gone and I had just had surgery, I couldn't even go after you," Eddie said. "Why'd you do it?"

Stalling for time, Richie ran a hand over his jaw where it rasped against his stubble. His anger was, as ever, barely skin-deep; when it evaporated it just left him pale and hunched in on himself, refusing to meet Eddie's eye. "I don't know," he said. "I thought—you had everyone else."

"Yeah," Eddie agreed, heart pounding. "But not you."

Flinching, Richie shook his head. "Eddie..."

"Why did you leave?"

"Fuck, Eddie," he said through a grimace. "I was fucking _embarrassed_ , dude. I had to get out with my dignity. I thought you died and I lost my mind, the whole hospital knew how I felt about you. You were hurt and you almost died and you just—I couldn't fucking cope. Stan kept telling me I had to stick around and talk to you, but I couldn't. I couldn't do it."

"How do you feel about me?"

Laughing humorlessly, Richie's shoulders rose even higher as he said, "I guess I've been in love with you since I was like, thirteen?"

"Oh," Eddie said, astonished. Richie glanced at him then, his mouth twisted into an almost-smile.

"You didn't know."

Eddie shook his head. The duration was a surprise, anyway.

"Yeah, I was all in at a very early age," Richie said. Eddie's first, wild, unspeakable thought was, shit, they could have gone to junior prom together, instead of going stag. "But hey," Richie continued, in a self-deprecating, defeated tone, "Don't let this change how you're feeling about the handjob. Water under the bridge man, I'm serious. Just—forget the whole thing."

"I don't think I can," Eddie said.

Briefly, Richie held his bitter expression in place; then he crumpled. He stuck his fists into his eye sockets and said, "Fuck, Eddie, don't say that."

As Eddie looked at Richie, he thought about pine trees.

Here was the thing about birds: they tended to forget where they hid the seeds they buried. Stan had told him this while Eddie was lying in his hospital bed, eyes still swollen and chest muscles aching from crying. The Clark's Nutcracker, Stan read aloud from his illustrated birding guide, could hide up to 500 pine seeds in the ground in an hour. And it could not possibly remember where all those seeds ended up. All those forgotten seeds lay dormant in the earth until they germinated and grew into new pine trees. That was how forests were born.

Eddie, standing on Stan's deck a year later, could relate. Richie looked now just as he had done at seven, at thirteen, at sixteen, at forty: he looked like Richie. He looked like he always looked, and Eddie felt the way he always felt about him. He loved him, and miraculous as that was, Eddie was beginning to understand that he had loved Richie for so long he couldn't remember starting. Maybe there was no point on the graph of knowing Richie that he could point to and think, _that was the time before I loved him._ It had happened without him noticing, and now he was standing in a pine forest.

Very gently, Eddie pulled Richie's hands away from his eyes. He didn't let go, either; when Richie moved to jam his hands in his pockets again, Eddie stubbornly held on. "Listen to me, Rich," he said, because Richie, slumped in the deck chair, looked on the verge of tears. "I'm going to tell you something. And I need you to take it seriously."

"I'm listening," Richie said in a raw voice.

"Good. Because the thing is, I want to marry you."

This time, when Richie moved, Eddie dropped his hands, because Richie stood up to his full height, looming over Eddie like a handsome, emotionally distraught brick wall. _"What?_ Eddie, are you—what are you—"

"Let me explain—"

"Is this a _proposal?"_

"Richie, shut up for a second." Eddie raised his weaker left hand to Richie's chest, counting on Richie to be mindful of it. And he was—he stilled, watching Eddie carefully with huge eyes. "Listen. Last week, my coworker—my friend, Devon, he was talking about how he had to make a turkey for Thanksgiving. And he said he was doing it for his wife, because that's what marriage is about. When your mother-in-law comes to town you make a turkey so your wife is happy and her mom is happy. And I'm sitting there at the bar and I thought, 'Damn, I want to make Richie a turkey.' Well, I guess not, because of the pescatarianism, even though you cheat. But Richie, I'm telling you, I would make you a turkey if you wanted. I would make you _shrimp_ , if you wanted."

Richie took a long minute to answer, and when he did, he spoke slowly, as if working through a word problem. "Let me get this straight. You want to marry me. So that you can cook me shrimp."

"Well. Not _just_ shrimp."

He'd meant it as a joke, but instead of laughing, Richie took on the general mien of a person who had bitten into something and found it sour. Face scrunched with displeasure, Richie said, "Okay, well, what the fuck, Eddie. Are you trying to make me feel better?"

"What? No!"

"Do you think I'm an idiot who needs someone to come cook for me? Because, for the record, I know how to cook."

The record needle in Eddie's brain scratched loudly. Richie, who had served _canned cranberries_ at Stan's Thanksgiving feast not twenty-four hours ago, knew how to cook? "But," Eddie began, "You said you don't—"

"Yeah, dude, I _don't_ , because I travel for work and I'm busy, but come on, Eddie, I'm forty-one years old, I'm not totally fucking incompetent. I don't need you to feel sorry for me and I definitely don't need you to marry me to be _nice,"_ he said, hitting that last word with disgust. "So, pass. I can cook my own fucking shrimp."

This was not going well _at all._ Richie, muscles coiled and jaw locked, looked ready to bolt; if he did, he might disappear all the way back to California. Eddie had survived a claw to the lung, but he was going to die of his own verbal ineptitude while Richie glared coldly at him. And over seafood, no less.

"Richie," he said, halfway desperate, "When have I ever been _nice?_ I'm not nice, I'm—I'm in love with you."

"Oh," Richie said. His face caught up a second later, eyes going wide as plates. " _Oh_."

This was much better. Richie looked lightly stupefied, eyes bugging out and his nice pink mouth open and shocked. There was a divot in the shape of his slightly crooked tooth on his bottom lip, and Eddie looked at it and _wanted_. "Can I finish now?" he demanded, irritated partly because he'd been afraid that Richie would run, and partly by how badly he wanted to kiss Richie's stupid face. "Because I've spent the last year thinking about two things: one is that I'm pissed at you, because you left me behind. The other is that I'm just thinking _about_ you, all the time. Did Richie get enough sleep last night? Is he thinking about me? What city is Rich in today, when can I call him—because I miss you whenever we're not talking. I miss you all the time, more than anybody I've ever known."

He could have knocked Richie over with a feather; Richie, despite his height and his bulk and the solid muscle of his upper body that he was rudely hiding underneath his clothes, looked halfway to fainting.

"I had... a really bad marriage. And a _really_ bad mom," Eddie admitted. "And I had all this fucking garbage in my head that they put there, and I'm not very brave and I don't notice things happening around me, so I've been carrying around this feeling for you forever without knowing what it was. When Devon was talking about taking care of his wife, I thought, cool. That's what I want to do for Richie. If Richie will let me, I'll just—move to L.A., and take care of him, and be with him, wherever he is, so I don't have to miss him anymore. I'll sleep on the pull-out couch for the rest of time, and cook him shrimp, even though seafood is fucking disgusting, I mean, shrimp are basically worms, Richie."

Richie let out a laugh that was more like a puff of air. Then he lifted his hand. Eddie assumed—hoped—he was about to be kissed, but instead Richie laid his big, slightly clammy palm just above Eddie's eyebrows. "Uh," Eddie said. "What are you doing?"

"Checking you're not sick after all."

"Quit it," Eddie said, but he smiled. Richie smiled too—the first smile of the day, tiny and fragile but real and because of him. Eddie's heart careened around his chest like a pinball. "Richie," he said, very serious now, "I think I've been in love with you for a really long time. Probably since _I_ was thirteen. I've loved you for so long that I thought that's just what being alive was like—thinking about you, hoping you're okay, worrying if you're remembering to put on sunscreen. And I didn't know that. Partly because I thought I was straight, and I'm not, but I'd never had any reason to think about it before. No, shut up," he said, because Richie had opened his mouth. "Let me finish, asshole. Mostly, I didn't know because nobody ever told me what love is supposed to feel like. But I think... it feels like this."

It had _better_ feel like this. Eddie didn't have more hours in the day to devote to Richie; he was barely fitting in work and sleep as it was. Richie's expression softened; Eddie, emboldened, stepped closer to him. It was chilly, standing in the open air, and Richie was just in his pajamas and his winter coat. Was he cold? Eddie didn't want him to be cold, ever. To keep him from freezing, Eddie picked up his hands and held them in his.

"So that's why I want to marry you. Because I love you. That's why I was mad when you left me in Derry, except I guess I wasn't mad. I think I was heartbroken." Richie, distressed, clutched harder at Eddie's hands, but Eddie barely noticed; he was on a roll now. "And because I'm an _idiot,_ I've been talking all week about how I was going to propose to you as friends, and now everyone is mad at me. Also I kissed that guy in New York because I wanted to make sure I could kiss guys before I kissed you. And I can! I can kiss you, which is good because I want to, literally all the time."

Again, he was hoping that Richie would pick up on the hint and kiss him. But Richie only stood there silently, his hands very still in Eddie's grasp. As hard as it was to begrudge him time to think—Eddie had needed all week and an explicit intervention to bash the concept of his loving Richie into his skull, surely Richie was entitled to _thirty seconds_ to mull it over—waiting for him to speak was like incremental torture.

Eddie waited. Not long, but at least another ten seconds or so. Then he blurted, "Do you... are you gonna say anything?"

"Eds," Richie said. He shook his head. The sun was shining so brightly; the air was sweet, despite the cold. "I am taking in a truly insane amount of information right now, so just... bear with me. You were going to propose?"

"I—yeah. I bought a ring."

"You bought a ring?" Richie said, voice full of wonder. "Do you still have it?" Yeah, he had it; it was in the breast pocket of his coat. He'd been carrying it around, the small box a reassuring weight. He produced it from his pocket and Richie's jaw dropped. "Eddie..."

"I'm not proposing," Eddie insisted. "Yet, because I think—Richie, if you're in love with me, and I'm in love with you, we should do this right. So I think you should go out with me and we should date for a while, maybe a year or two, and if that goes well, I think you should definitely marry me. I know I'm a fucking disaster, and I'm unbelievably fucked up when it comes to love, and you live in a different part of the country—"

"Shut up, Eds. Can I... can I see it?"

Eddie obligingly cracked the box open. The black velvet parted, revealing a simple gold band on a soft white pillow. Eddie had considered selecting something zany and weird, because Richie loved dressing like a stoned theater major, but he had decided on this. The sales associate said words like _elegant_ and _classic_ but Eddie had seen it and been able to picture it on Richie's finger; he'd purchased it on the spot.

Richie gaped at the ring like he wasn't sure it was real. "Wow."

"This doesn't count and it's not a proposal, but—you like it, right? It's something you'd wear?" Eddie asked, unaccountably nervous.

Richie's laugh came out shaky. "I may not ever take it off," he admitted.

As much as that thrilled Eddie to hear, he had stipulations. "We need to date first. I have a lot of issues, which you probably noticed already. Also we have to figure out how to have a fight, and how to apologize, and we should probably have some more sex."

"Sold," Richie said immediately.

Eddie squinted up at him, trying to gauge how seriously he was taking this. "It's not a proposal, Richie."

"Right, right, I hear you," Richie said, "It's just that I do want to go out with you and I absolutely do want to marry you, so this is kind of like a down payment."

Eddie liked the sound of that. Down payment, but with an option to accelerate.

Growing serious, he admitted quietly, "I'm really scared." Richie waited for him to continue, nodding when the words got stuck in Eddie's throat. "I'm scared I'll be shitty at this, that I'll do it wrong and fuck everything up. I don't want to fuck things up with you. You're too important, Richie."

"I can relate," Richie said, just as soft. "See, there's this guy I've been in love with for thirty years, and he showed up to Derry all cute and pissed off but _married_ —" Eddie laughed brittlely, realizing where this was headed "—Then he almost died and instead of telling him how I felt, I freaked out and ran away. And then at Thanksgiving, he got drunk and he was all over me, and I said to myself, 'Nuh-uh, Trashmouth, don't make a move, he's straight and out of your league and he'd never want you back. You shouldn't have booked it like an asshole when he needed you.'" Richie sighed. "But then I slept with him anyway."

"He liked it," Eddie assured him. "Top three, easy. And he forgives you for leaving."

Richie didn't laugh, but he did crack a smile. "Eds," he said. "I'm scared, too. I never thought—I was just happy being in your life, man. So we don't have to get married." _Yes we do,_ Eddie thought stubbornly. "We can take it slow, we can do whatever. But maybe... we should be brave together?"

He kept flexing his left hand, Eddie noticed. His eyes kept flicking down to the ring, pupils blown, and his fingers were twitching with little, unconscious movements—Richie wanted to put the ring on so badly he could barely control himself. "Richie," Eddie started to say, "You know I—ah, fuck it." He gave up; he was all out of speeches. "Put it on."

In the end, Eddie placed the ring on Richie's finger. Richie's hands were trembling, and the deck they were standing on had large gaps between the wooden boards; if the ring fell, they might never find it again. So Eddie picked up the band off its snowy white cushion and slid it carefully onto the fourth finger of Richie's left hand. It fit—not perfectly, but well enough. Richie let out a slow, careful breath as he closed his hand around it. "Yeah," he said, "I'm not taking this off."

"But you have to, it's not the right size," Eddie objected. Richie, ignoring that, put his hand on the nape of Eddie's neck. Eddie realized with a shiver that the line of cold he felt was the metal ring band. The kitchen blinds were still, but Eddie was conscious of all their closest friends being just on the other side of the glass. As Richie slid his fingers to cup the base of his skull, Eddie said, "Just so you know, I'm pretty sure they're spying on us."

Richie reeled him in. "I don't care if you don't," he said, against Eddie's mouth.

Eddie, it turned out, did not care at all.

+++

Sometime later, after Eddie had done his best to fix Richie's hair and his own collar, they returned to the house. It was warm and cozy after the chill outside. Eddie's mouth was swollen and his jaw ached, but he'd been extremely happy making out on the deck; only when the tips of his fingers had gone numb had he agreed to go in.

In the living room, the others were all pretending to watch TV with an unnatural intensity. No one looked up as he and Richie came in; Ben even fake-yawned, which was a tad much. Richie, frowning, pulled the sliding glass door with a pointed _click_. "You shitheads are not fucking subtle!"

Stan blithely turned his head, as if he had just noticed their arrival, but then his expression changed and he went still. "Richie," he said, " _What_ is on your hand."

Five heads turned in unison, their charade of not paying attention vanishing in an instant. Bill and Patty both gasped; Mike swore softly. Bev and Ben looked only slightly surprised, because they had discussed the ring on the drive over, albeit not that Eddie was going to end up giving it to him. Stan, however, was staring at Richie's left hand in shock, eyes enormous.

Eddie raised his hands defensively, which in turn raised Richie's hand, because he had yet to let go of him. "It's not what you think."

"It's a little bit what you think," Richie said cheerfully. He had pushed past the vulnerable, tender side of himself he'd shown Eddie out on the deck—he was now decidedly smug. "Stan, don't look at me like that, it's all I've wanted since I was thirteen, I wasn't going to say _no_."

"I didn't propose, Stan, I swear. I just—put the idea on the table."

Stan closed his eyes and shook his head. "Oh my god," he said. Patty, sitting behind him on the couch, laid a comforting hand on his back, even as she fought back a smile.

"Hopefully it'll be a long engagement?" she said.

"It's not an engagement!" Eddie insisted. "I didn't propose!"

It was a hard argument to sustain, however, when the ring was unquestionably on Richie's finger. Bev ran over to inspect the ring, and the others followed, more sedately but no less curiously. "All that talk about proposing, and you didn't manage it?" Mike said, as Bev picked up Richie's hand and cooed over it.

"Wait a second," Bill said, eyes narrowing, _"You knew_ about this?"

"You didn't?"

This whole conversation was bizarre, because he and Bill had talked about it the minute he finished getting chewed out by Stan. When Eddie pointed this out, Bill looked outraged. "No we didn't! We talked about getting divorced, and then you were being cryptic— _cryptic_ as fuck about not returning Richie's feelings, and I told you to buy, to buy a plant!"

"Yeah, _instead of proposing_ ," Eddie reminded him.

"I thought you regretted flirting with him at Applebee's! You think if you told me you were seriously thinking about, about—about marrying Richie, I'd tell you to get a plant?!"

That was exactly what he had thought. This did, at least, explain why Bill's advice has been so dismissive and useless. "You were gonna replace me with a plant?" Richie said mildly.

Eddie, irritated, pinched him on the hip. "Obviously I wasn't. And Jesus, Bill, I thought I was being extremely clear. Besides, I told Mike, I thought he'd tell you."

Bill rounded on Mike, who tried and failed to appear apologetic. "Well, I didn't want to gossip," he said. "And, to be fair, I thought he meant _eventually,_ not this weekend, I figured he would at least take Richie to dinner first."

"Show of hands," Richie said, frowning, "Who here knew that Eddie was talking about proposing _and didn't think to warn me?"_

Nobody actually raised their hands, but Eddie had told everyone except Patty, in some form or another. He was sure he would have gotten around to telling her too, soon enough; in a few more days Eddie probably would have told the mailman and the hotel concierge. "Ben and I knew first," Bev chimed in, "But honestly, I thought you were just being cute, I _also_ thought you'd take him to dinner before proposing."

"Oh my _god,"_ Eddie said, throwing his free hand up in exasperation. "Excuse the fuck outta me for not spelling it out to all of you. To recap, Richie and I are in love, we're _not_ engaged but we are dating, and we talked about our feelings like fucking grown-ups, so nobody try to talk me out of it. Got it?"

He mostly said this for Stan's benefit, because he felt certain that Stan would be the one to put a stop to this. Or try, he supposed—Eddie was not about to let himself be stopped. But to his surprise Stan gave a resigned sort of _sure, why not_ gesture with his hands. Ben, of all people, was the one who said skeptically, "You're not engaged but you gave him the ring?"

Next time Eddie made a romantic confession to Richie, he was doing it on a deserted island. "Well, we're pre-engaged, then," he said. "Now get out of my face."

"Yeah," Richie said, "Leave my pre-fiancé alone!"

"Oh good god," Stan muttered.

"That is not a thing, Richie," Eddie said, even though no one was listening to him. Now that the squabbling had ended, Ben had drawn Richie into such an effusive hug that Richie had been forced, at last, to drop Eddie's hand; Eddie, ridiculously, missed him. When Ben finally relinquished his grip on Richie, Eddie gathered his attention again by putting both hands on his face. "Richie," he said firmly, "When I propose to you, you'll know it."

Richie _melted._ "Huh," Bill said, "You killed him."

Scoffing, Richie tucked Eddie against his side and pressed a kiss to his temple. "Shut up, Bill. Replace me with a _plant."_

Despite having the emotional intelligence of a stick insect, Eddie knew that he had been a terror this vacation and that he ought to apologize. Taking an unsteady breath in, he straightened his spine and addressed them as a group. "Um. While I have you all together, I just want to say I'm sorry. I know I've been a fucking nightmare—no, Richie," he said, shaking his head when Richie tried to defend him, "I've been a pill. So—sorry. About everything." The last part was even more painful, but Eddie forced himself to say it. "Thanks for liking me anyway."

There was a short, dreadful pause wherein, Eddie feared, they were all preparing to say, _No, you're too much for us, actually_. But then Bill spoke. "Well, Eddie," he said, "I left my wife and ran away with Mike in a second-hand RV, so. Glass houses."

"Yeah," Mike agreed, draping an arm around Bill's shoulders; Bill leaned back into his chest and twined their fingers together. "I sold everything I own and kidnapped a famous author for a sex vacation through the Southwest."

"Kidnapped?" Bill said, grinning. "I came willingly."

An evil gleam stole over Richie's face at the word _came_ ; Eddie rushed to say, "Richie, don't—"

"I blew up my company so Tom couldn't have it," said Bev, over whatever dirty joke Richie had been about to say.

From her side, Ben said, "I gave Bev a really bad tattoo."

"And I tried to kill myself," Stan said, shrugging. He didn't say it like it was shocking; he said it like it was something bad that happened, but not something that defined his life. Patty reached to link their hands together, and Stan smiled gratefully at her before continuing. "So what if you're a mess? You're one of us, and we're all fucked up."

Richie, on the other hand, said, "Don't look at me. Personally I'm extremely well-adjusted and mentally healthy, and always have been."

"Me too, unfortunately," Patty said with a smile.

Yes, they were all fucked up, but they were a family, and what family wasn't? Feeling almost light-headed with relief, Eddie laughed; if it came out shaky, then no one mentioned it. Hiding his face under Richie's coat, in the folds of his soft sweater, Eddie swiped at his eyes while Patty said with obvious excitement, "Now, Bev, tell us: what's the tattoo of?"

Bev burst into laughter, her freckled nose creasing in glee. "I'm sorry," she said, while Ben sighed and hung his head. "Oh, honey, no, it's not your fault, it's just that we did it kind of spur of the moment and it's a stick-and-poke, you see—"

Eddie had not yet emerged from Richie's sweater. He wasn't crying, or if he was, he wasn't _sad_ —he was fairly certain he was happy. Ecstatic, maybe. And wouldn't his therapist be thrilled to know he had accessed every possible emotion on this vacation and mostly handled it?

Richie, arms still tenderly around his midsection, asked quietly, "You okay?"

"Do _not_ look at me," Eddie snapped. Laughing, Richie said nothing, only ruffled his hair.

The others had all rounded on Bev, who was being extremely coy as to the location and description of the tattoo; Ben, meanwhile, had settled onto a barstool, politely refusing to answer as Bill peppered him with questions. "I mean, is it horrifying? It's not a _clown_ , is it—"

"I think," Mike said, tactfully interrupting, "Instead of going to the mall, Ben should give all of us an ugly stick-and-poke tattoo. I think that could be a very fun bonding activity."

"Because what we don't have enough of in this family is shared trauma?" Stan asked in disbelief.

That made Eddie laugh, so hard he nearly choked. Everyone turned to look at him. They stood in a semi-circle, all smiling at him—even Stan. Eddie looked into their familiar, beloved faces and said solemnly, "You're all fucking terrible. But I guess I'm thankful for you anyway."

In the end, Ben did not give them stick-and-poke tattoos. After Bill badgered Bev half to death, she showed them the very small, very ugly blob on her shoulderblade—"It's a fire," Ben said morosely, while Richie and Stan had conniptions together—at which point the collective enthusiasm for permanent body modification vanished. But Richie suggested that Bev paint his fingernails—"I need a manicure for the ring pic," he said, batting his eyelashes and unknowingly making Eddie's brain turn to soup—and somehow that idea transformed into a nail polish party on the living room floor. They never ended up going to the outlet mall, either; instead, they whiled the day away with board games and old movies and takeout Indian food. After _Casablanca_ , once Bill, Patty and Ben had dried their eyes, they propped up Stan's camera and took timer photos of all eight of them, jammed onto the single sofa, everyone beaming.

Eddie sent the second-best photo, the one where everyone's eyes were open and trained on the camera and Richie was _not_ exaggeratedly displaying his left hand, to Melissa and Devon. _Family portrait,_ was his caption.

 _Cute pedicure Eddie. Love the blue!_ replied Melissa.

 _!!! Holy shit is that Trashmouth Tozier with his arm around you?_ Devon replied.

Grinning, Eddie responded, _I'll explain on Monday. Lunch?_

The best picture, the one where all the couples were kissing and Richie _was_ flashing the ring and his blue fingernails at the camera and Eddie was slumped in his arms, smiling so hard his face was nothing but dimples—that one he saved, just for him.

+++

When Eddie's alarm went off the next morning, Richie hit him with a pillow. Several times—Eddie had to kiss him to get him to stop. "Are you fucking kidding?" Richie groused, even as he stuck his hands up the back of Eddie's pajama shirt. "You set your alarm for _seven-thirty_? On a Saturday? What kind of fucking demon sets an alarm on a holiday weekend?"

"I'm gonna go to the gym," Eddie said, kissing Richie's temple and jaw, so happy he felt like he might vibrate out of his skin. He could feel Richie's ring against his back. The solid metal contrasted with the warm give of Richie's hands, and Eddie loved it. Loved _him_. That was still new and terrifying and extremely surprising to think, but Eddie was enjoying the hell out of getting used to it. "I'm gonna go walk on the treadmill and then I'm gonna take a shower, and you can sleep through all of it."

Richie, eyes closed again already, made a contemplative noise. "Wake me up for the shower."

After their mutually satisfactory shared shower, they met up with Bev and Ben and drove to Stan and Patty's. Ben innocently asked if they had slept well. Richie said, "Well, he kicks," and Eddie said, "Only because _you_ hogged the entire mattress," and Richie said, "Because you're a _shrimp_ , Eds," and Eddie said, "I am perfectly average, you gargantuan fuck—"

"Oh Jesus Christ," Bev said, fixing them with a weary look in the rearview mirror, while Ben giggled, "The two of you are never going to shut up, are you?"

"The evidence is against it," Eddie said, as Richie, beaming, reached for his hand.

When they arrived at Stan's house, Richie produced a key to the front door and let them in, very smug about being entrusted with his own key to the Blum-Uris household. Then he kissed Eddie's temple and went upstairs to go rifle through his suitcase. Thoughtfully, he left his coat in Eddie's arm for him to hang up. "Thanks, baby!" he yelled, as he went up the stairs. The petname took him by surprise, and Eddie, smiling goofily, couldn't even find it in him to protest.

Eddie was carefully hanging their coats side-by-side—so what if he was sentimental, sue him—when he noticed Stan in the doorway, studying him. Eddie turned slowly. Stan had said he was happy for them, but Stan was enigmatic and Eddie was a deeply frustrating person; maybe he had changed his mind.

Warily, Eddie said, "You're not mad, are you?"

To his surprise, Stan laughed. "No," he said. "I'm not mad. First of all, it has been suggested to me that I should probably not paint myself an authority on what other people's relationships should or shouldn't be." He smiled wryly; Eddie guessed it was Patty who had offered that particular suggestion. "Just because my marriage is one way doesn't mean everyone else's has to be the same."

That was true. Eddie didn't know anything about the larger gay community, despite having recently joined it, but he was vaguely aware that he was not the first person to contemplate marrying for non-romantic reasons. Then again, he didn't think Richie would have accepted the tax benefits version of his proposal. Even if he had, unless someone put Eddie out of his misery and informed him that he was in love with Richie, he would no doubt have continued to pine for Richie for the rest of time, married or no.

"But in my defense," Stan continued, "He's been in love with you for a very long time. And before you ask," he said, sounding long-suffering, "Yes. He _has_ been whining about it for literally the entire time. So I worry. That’s not an excuse, just an explanation." He shrugged, and then his expression brightened. "But if you're both on the same page, then I am really and truly happy for you. For both of you—you deserve to be happy too, Eddie."

Impulsively, Eddie lifted his arms to pull Stan into a hug. He was a little out of practice at the motion but Stan leaned willingly into the embrace. "But," he said firmly, arms still around Eddie's back, "Since I care about you both, please promise you'll take it slowly."

Releasing him, Eddie said, "I _just_ got divorced."

"He's wearing your engagement ring," Stan pointed out.

That was true; Eddie, blushing, made a helpless gesture. "We really are going to date first."

Stan's mouth tilted skeptically. "Try to last a year without marrying him."

From upstairs, there came the sound of the bedroom door slamming, and then Richie's footsteps on the landing. As he came down the stairs, it became clear that he had changed _into_ pajamas, for some unknowable reason, and he was singing an old Mentos jingle as he bounced down each step. "Stan," Eddie said, watching Richie notice him and beam, his heart knocking frantically against his ribs in answer, "I'll do my fucking best."

In the kitchen, Bev and Mike were excavating leftovers from the fridge to serve for breakfast, and they appeared to be arguing about which flavor of pie was superior, pecan or sweet potato. Every so often, Bill would say, "Did you pack the toothpaste?" or "Did you remember to get my jeans from the laundry?" and Mike would answer before returning to the fight. The two of them were flying out that evening; their bags were already stacked by the bottom of the staircase. It was sad that they were splitting up so soon—Eddie was just getting into the swing of being a family again.

Richie appeared to be thinking the same thing, because he said, "Does anyone want to come to L.A. for New Year's?"

Bill looked up from his bowl of stuffing. "I live there, so yeah," he said, "Mike and I can probably swing it."

"We'd have to check our calendars, but sounds great to me," said Ben, visibly excited.

"That's nice," Richie said pleasantly, dumping coffee into a mug and then reaching for a second one for Eddie, "But I'm really just asking Eddie."

Eddie, pleased, watched as Richie inexpertly fixed him a cup of coffee and slid it over to him. It was the thought that counted, he decided; besides, he'd have plenty of time to show Richie how he actually liked his coffee. "Are you coming to New York for Christmas?"

Richie paused. Their hands overlapped on the mug, and Eddie could feel the gold band on his finger. "You want me to?"

"No," Eddie said truthfully, "I want you to come back to New York with me tomorrow." He hated Christmas in New York, but it seemed like the kind of thing Richie would be into. Maybe Richie could cook his own shrimp, but if he wanted to do cheesy shit like skating at Rockefeller Center, Eddie could do that. Anything within his power, Eddie would provide. "But," he added with regret, "You should probably finish your tour first."

Behind him somewhere, someone who sounded like Mike gagged loudly. Richie, eyes still trained on Eddie's face, flipped him off. "I'm not flying out until Monday night, can you skip work Monday and extend your hotel?"

Eddie had no fucking idea if he could skip work on Monday, but apart from a month of medical leave after being nearly stabbed to death, he hadn't missed a day of work in over a decade, so he thought the odds were good. For a dreamy second he even let himself imagine getting fired and then moving into Richie's L.A. condo. But it was only a dream; his apartment and therapist and favorite bodega cat were all in New York, and he couldn't leave them—yet. He definitely couldn't just abandon Devon and Melissa without a word. But, he decided, they could survive one day without him.

He still wasn't sure how he was going to explain to them that he had a new boyfriend who he was quasi-engaged to, let alone that said boyfriend was a celebrity, but it was going to make for a hell of an anecdote when they all went out to lunch.

"Eddie," Bill said, smirking, "Do you know what U-Hauling is?"

Richie turned pink and snapped, "Bill, you literally _moved into_ Mike's U-Haul, do not scare my Eddie off."

In truth, Eddie had no idea what that meant, but as long as it was something he could do with Richie, it was probably fine. "Is U-Hauling bad?" he wondered aloud, mind happily fixating on the way Richie had said, _my Eddie_.

"It's value neutral, but there's really no need to rush," Patty said. That didn't clear up what it _meant,_ but, whatever. Patty continued, as she fixed herself a plate of pumpkin pie and mashed potatoes, "Richie, Stan and I would love to visit you in Los Angeles for New Year's. And Eddie, as a late birthday present, would you like to stay here tonight and tomorrow? If you can take off Monday, that is."

Yes, Eddie wanted that. Eddie wanted that very much. Turning back to Richie, Eddie clumsily laced their hands together. "You want me to reschedule my flight and burn all my frequent flyer miles?"

"Oh God," Bev said under her breath, "Not the fucking United frequent flyer miles again."

But Richie thought he was cute; Eddie could tell because he was grinning from ear to ear, so hard it made the crow's-feet that Eddie loved pop. "Marry me," Richie said, "And you can use mine."

Pressing up on his tiptoes, Eddie leaned over the counter and kissed him. "Done," he said, "No take-backs."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings: discussions of myra & sonia's emotional abuse; eddie's low self-worth; discussions of eddie's sexuality & richie's previous bad dating history; references to medical stuff & stan's non-fatal suicide attempt. 
> 
> author's faq:  
> q: why didn't devon notice that richie was in the picture from Applebee's eddie sent on Wednesday night?  
> a: the lighting was not good in Applebee's & he only glanced at the picture, he was busy cooking a turkey. also the first time you see your fun but neurotic coworker cuddled up with a potential celebrity, you shake it off. but twice?? 
> 
> q: why did you set a key emotional scene in a fucking Applebee's??  
> a: no idea, i deeply regret it, i had to ctrl + f to see if i'd missed the apostrophe 1000 times. if i did miss it anywhere don't tell me. 
> 
> ok thanks for reading bye!!


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